


Who Art Black As Hell, As Dark As Night

by slantedwonders



Category: The Musketeers (2014), The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: As pertaining to nose bleeds, Author attempts to be spooky, Canon typical character death, Canon-Typical Violence, Details in author's notes, Dubious Consent, Edward Little is King of Shame, Edward centric, Gaslighting, Ghost Sex, Ghost/Demonic Possession, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Internalized Homophobia, I’m very mean to the poor boy, M/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, References to period typical racism, Small mention of blood, Supernatural Creatures, Supernatural Elements, This is weird fellas, Underage tag is for only a scene in the first chapter, Which is a solo act, this does not have a happy ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:59:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 28,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27461572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slantedwonders/pseuds/slantedwonders
Summary: There is something terribly wrong with Edward Little. There is something insidious that haunts him. A malevolence that hunts and taunts him. He is plagued by it, this thing, this entity. It has always been with him, from boyhood to manhood, and it will be there even at his death. He knows this with each breath that fills his lungs. He feels this with each beat of his heart.
Relationships: Lt Edward Little/Lucien Grimaud, Lt Edward Little/Lucien Grimaud/Thomas Jopson, Lt Edward Little/OMC, Lucien Grimaud/Thomas Jopson, Thomas Jopson/Lt Edward Little
Comments: 30
Kudos: 40





	1. The Thing Came Abruptly and Unannounced

**Author's Note:**

> This is dedicated to the GrimJop Discord. Every single person on there has been so wonderful and welcoming. I never would have jumped back into the writing saddle without them. Thank you! You guys are amazing!
> 
> An enormous thank you to my wonderful Beta [pathera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pathera/pseuds/pathera)! Thanks for reading my weird fic about characters you don't know!
> 
> Edward Little is one of my favorite characters from The Terror and I am horrendously cruel to him. I'm so sorry, Ned. I really did a whole character analysis of Lucien Grimaud for this. Maybe 30% of that analysis made it into the story.
> 
> Work title taken from Shakespearean Sonnet CXLVII.
> 
> Chapter title from H.P. Lovecraft's _The Lurking Fear_.
> 
> Please heed the tags. Additional content warnings can be found in the end notes.

There is something terribly wrong with Edward Little. There is something insidious that haunts him. A malevolence that hunts and taunts him. He is plagued by it, this thing, this entity. It has always been with him, from boyhood to manhood, and it will be there even at his death. He knows this with each breath that fills his lungs. He feels this with each beat of his heart.

He is five the first time he sees it. Charlotte has made him angry, telling him he is "too little" to go on a ride with her and their brother. He sits alone in the playroom, surrounded by toys, sulking. Across the room he spots his sister's favorite doll carefully propped up in a chair. Charlotte covets the thing, combs out the hair, dresses it in the morning, pretends to feed it. 

Later, Edward will not recall what he had been thinking before he came to stand in front of the doll. He recalls only the sound that distracts him. It's a soft exhalation, not unlike the ones he's prone to when annoyed. He looks away to find there is not another soul in the room, but, turning back, the doll is no longer in the chair. Instead she is held in the hands of a boy Edward does not recognize. A boy who looks tremendously familiar.

Edward blinks.

Waking feels like coming out of a warm fog, but once his eyes are open it's as though he was never asleep. He is slumped in the corner of the playroom and, in the arms of a maid, Charlotte is crying.

"Ned did it! Ned did it! I know he did!" The maid does her best to calm the frantic child.

Edward looks at their nurse, who is standing to the side holding a doll. Its detached head is at her feet, smashed, ruined. One eye stares at Edward. It mirrors the judgement he sees in the nurse's eyes. He tries to explain, to say he didn't do anything, but the nurse's pinching grip on his ear is unshakeable. Her barked "You should be ashamed!" drowns out his protests.

His ear is ringing and his throat is hoarse when he is deposited in front of his mother. He maintains his innocence, beseeching her to understand that it must have been the other boy. His mother silences him with a stern "Edward" and then declares everything will be resolved before his father arrives home.

He gets one stripe for breaking the doll and two more for lying.

He is nine, nearly ten, when he realizes no one else can see the boy. 

Edward is certain their home is haunted. A shadow is ever present in the corner of his eye. Cold dark gazes meet him over the dinner table and around door jambs. Whispered words startle him awake as often as they lull him to sleep. It seems an ever present element to his life and, as used to it now as he is, he is terrified of it.

One snowy December afternoon, Edward bounds in after a ride with his brother and stops before the looking glass in the hall. Staring back at him is the boy, snow in hair that is the same nut brown as his own. His own hazel eyes gaze back at him, dark and cold. Above the wind chapped cheeks, on his temple, sits a scar that he does not recognize. 

There is no breath in Edward's lungs. Looking at a face that is his and not his, so familiar and so foreign, he feels the world stop. He can only watch as the boy slowly reaches out, fingertips spreading, for Edward's shoulder. 

Gasping, he is startled by Hale stomping into the house. He is demanding to know if Edward wants new toys or a new saddle for Christmas. He hesitates.

"A new...uh...a new saddle," he replies, unable to hide the tremor in his voice.

Hale looks at him quizzically before their mother strides into the hall speaking of supper. She scolds them both for their dripping boots and sends them off to the kitchen. Before he goes, Edward dares to look back at the mirror. He sees only himself, snow in his hair and wind chapped cheeks.

That evening, tucked away in the sitting room with books or embroidery, Edward dares to ask his siblings what he fears. He wonders aloud if they think the house, their home, is haunted; if they've seen a boy who looks like him, but is not him. He asks if they've seen him in the corner of their eye or lurking in a mirror. Silence falls over the room. The air seems thick.

"You're trying to scare us," Charlotte says, teasing, a smile playing at her lips.

"Come, Ned, it's far too close to Christmas for ghost stories. Poor George won't sleep all night," Hale chimes in. 

"I'm not scared!" George cries from the floor, where he had been reading. Both Hale and Charlotte begin to laugh.

Edward laughs with them if only to hide how afraid he feels. He knows now he is alone in this. This ghost haunts him and only him. For, if they could see him, they would know he is standing by the fire, pinning Edward in place with a black stare.

He is fifteen and ignoring the call to his French lessons when he learns his ghost is a demon.

Home feels like a chore, like pretending, a never-ending exhausting act. He seeks out the stables, surrounds himself with the smell of hay and horse and the laughter of the hands as they work. They are good to him. They do not ask him to keep his careful facade. Instead, they speak to him and teach him. They call him "Ned" not "Master Little," like his father and brother. He feels welcome. 

He is feeding apples to a newly bred mare with the new stable hand, Billy. He is not much older than Edward himself and is leaning against the side of the stall in shirt and trousers, braces around his hips, sleeves turned up. Eating an apple of his own, Billy is a wonder. Edward can feel the warmth rising up the back of his neck and glances over. He watches Billy's pink lips stretch around the apple as he bites, watches him chew, swallow.

"Take what you want," a low and clear voice says into his ear.

At his side, Edward can feel his ghost, can swear there is breath against his shoulder. It has spoken to him before, in the same low clear tone, but never to tempt him. That it should come forward to taunt him now, in a moment of weakness, is mortifying. Edward determines, as fear settles in the pit of his stomach, to resist.

The mare senses the tension that has gone through him and shifts restlessly. She tries to pull away, but Billy is suddenly there with a soothing hand on her neck. He offers Edward his partially eaten apple as he gentles the animal.

"Here. She's probably just still hungry." Billy smiles when Edward takes the apple and their fingers brush. Something hot lances through him.

This close, Edward can smell the hay and sweat on Billy. He can see each strand of his sandy blond hair as it falls over his cheek, the rich hazel of his eyes. His lips are wet. He wonders what his mouth must taste like. Watching the muscles of his neck flex as he turns his head, Edward feels the urge to lick, to bite.

"Take what you want."

It is so loud, so insistent this time. There is a hand on his hand, guiding, reaching out to touch. Startled, Edward drops the apple and wrenches himself backwards. He nearly stumbles. Catching Billy's gaze he stands and stares, eyes wide. He gets nothing but confusion in return.

"Alright, Ned?" 

"Uh...I…" Edward shifts his gaze to the floor, suddenly ashamed, and brushes nonexistent dirt off his trousers. "I have a French lesson. Must go," he mumbles.

He does not wait for a reply; simply trudges out of the stables and up the lawn. He does not stop to see if his ghost is following. He knows it is. His face burns with embarrassment. He stands outside the house staring at a rose bush, his trembling fists clenching at his sides, until a maid finds him and shoos him inside.

Edward is scolded for missing half his French lesson. Though, in truth, the lessons are more a formality than a necessity. A late endeavor selected by his mother, he took to the language with an ease none of his siblings could ever muster. The tutor often praises him for being a "damn near natural." Edward feels anything but natural.

He cannot rightfully say how he came to this seeming talent for French. He cannot explain how, even as a child, the books of French poetry in the library had always made perfect sense to him. How, last summer while visiting relatives, did he know the streets of Paris better than his cousins? He cannot say why any of this is possible. He thinks, however, that some small part of him must know.

Across the room, as he recites his lesson, his ghost stands. Its face is bitter with anger and the hard line of its mouth moves in tandem with every word Edward says. They gaze at each other, eyes locked, and this thing must be a demon. The lips seem to be moving faster than they should, like this creature knows what words to form before he does. Like it's speaking for him.

Feigning illness, Edward does not go down for dinner. He kneels clutching his Bible and prays harder than he ever has. He reads aloud, searches for text that will ease or save him, begs God to deliver him. His knees ache and his legs cramp while his sweat soaked fingers smudge the ink on the pages. The demon taunts, with its presence alone, that there will be no absolution.

He feels exhausted and shaky, as though he were truly ill, when the maid knocks on the door to light a fire in the hearth. Accepting the warm cup of tea his mother sends up and allowing himself to be dressed for bed, he finds no comfort in the familiar tasks. Laying in his too warm bed he feels as though there is a coating of grime on his skin. He goes to the basin and dips his hands in the cool water, splashes some on his face. It provides precious little relief.

"You have to take what you want."

Edward spins around. The demon is perched leisurely against his bedclothes. Trembling, damp hands curling into the hem of his nightshirt, Edward chokes out, "What do you want from me?"

"The world will not give anything to you. You have to take the things you want." That a demon can sound so genuine is surely a crime against nature.

"What are you?" Edward whispers. The creature stands and takes two steps forward, beginning a slow, methodical, approach.

"You could've had him. You could've learned what it felt like." Closer now, unrelenting.

Gazing at the floor, cheeks burning with shame, Edward's mutter of "please" sounds weak even to his own ears.

"His hands. His mouth." 

"No. I-"

"You want him." 

There is no denying this. There is no denying the vast amount of excuses and fabricated scenarios that have brought him to the stables in the last month. There is no denying the lies he's told to simply be alone with Billy for ten minutes or the desire to touch or taste. Shame wells, again, in his chest as he recalls the dry chafe of his own hand against his prick, an act he'd committed only this morning.

Edward whimpers when the creature finally stops before him. So close. Too close. It does not have a smell, but it seems to be breathing steadily in opposition to his own stuttering breaths. It places one hand on his chest. He gasps at the touch, that it should feel so real.

"You could've known satisfaction," it hisses. Edward cannot help looking up and into its eyes. They are fathomless. Dark pools of blank anger. So much like Edward's own and so very different.

"What are you?" he tries again. The creature presses closer still, nose to nose now, breathing the same air.

"I am you."

The shiver that runs down Edward's spine is masked by the sensation of a wave washing over him. It's terribly cold and scorching hot. An odd almost fog settles over him. He knows his body is moving, but not how. Distantly he is aware of removing his nightshirt and climbing into the center of the bed. Hands, his own, slide up his sides and over his chest in gentle, slow strokes. They are familiar movements, practiced, as he always does to himself.

But there is something different. The caresses are firm, but slow, lasting. Edward typically sets a fast and brutal pace so that it will be over quickly. The discomfort, the occasional pain, a reminder of the sin that he is committing. A small sign of penance. He licks his own palm, tastes salt and sweat, and knows there will be no penance for this sin.

"Sin," the demon scoffs in Edward's ear as it strokes his own hand up his cock. The wet of saliva provides just enough slick sensation and Edward is panting. "Sin doesn't exist." It brings his other hand to rub and pinch at his nipples. This is not something he has done before and the sharpness of it has him moaning.

Lost to sensation, Edward's hazy mind cannot keep up with the onslaught of images that filter through it. Whether they are supplied by the demon or himself he cannot tell. 

"Oh, no, it's all you. _You._ " The demon breathes into his ear.

Billy without his shirt, shining in the sun, his hair wet. Water droplets trace down his chest to the waistband of trousers. The way his hands flex and his neck curves. The tension in his straining muscles. His eyelashes against flushing cheeks. His lips, swollen, kiss bitten. His hair messy from the hand in it as he kneels at Edward's feet. The sounds he makes choking -

With a sharp cry Edward spends hot across his stomach. Panting, chest heaving, he lays atop his blankets. The hazy feeling is gone as quickly as it came and he is left bone weary and too aware. Sweat cools on his body and he shivers. The demon stands at the foot of the bed. Observing.

"It can be so good, Edward" it says, then it is gone.

He manages to clean himself up and redress before he collapses into bed and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The **Underage** warning is for this chapter and this chapter alone. A scene features a 15 year old masturbating. If you do not wish to read, please **stop** reading the chapter at **"The shiver that runs down Edward."** All you need to know to proceed is that Edward is very gay and Lucien is very annoyed about how ashamed he is of it.
> 
> Please be aware that because this story deals so heavily with a supernatural entity possessing and haunting someone, consent will always be questionable.


	2. Fiendish Things Were In The Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward finds his family lacking and learns a little more about Lucien. Lucien is just trying to help ~~himself~~ and nothing is ever what it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I absolutely made up Ned's family dynamic. I'm sure The Littles were a loving family.
> 
> Title from "Cool Air" by H.P. Lovecraft
> 
> Additional content warnings in the end notes.

Edward Little is nineteen and very much not the man his father wishes he was. A disappointment. He does not share the commanding features of his older brother nor the ambition of his younger. What he does have is a vice they do not speak of. A proclivity he is caught partaking in exactly once while on his knees for a dusty haired groom. The groom is removed immediately and Hale backhands Edward so hard that his lip splits. He will chew at the wound for weeks, preventing it from healing.

It is expected that Edward will join the Navy and he will not contest this. His father hopes the time at sea will harden him or, at the very least, save the family from scandal. Edward very much hopes the same.

There is some small reprieve in the two months he spends with his aunt and cousin in Paris. There is a familiarity to the city. It is as though he has dreamed of these streets and dark alleys, of the smells, the way the sky looks above the rooftops. He finds some comfort in this even as an overwhelming sense of anxiety lodges itself at the center of his chest.

The demon is restless, agitated. It paces and stalks and growls. It hisses and scolds that nothing the Parisians have to offer is admirable, that there is little beauty here. Paris is a cesspool, like London, like the rest of the world. 

The creature seems quelled by quiet mornings and early evenings. Edward is content to spend his two months drawing in cafes and drinking wine in the comfort of his own rooms. The wine is, perhaps, the only thing the demon likes about France.

But the sense of calm is not to last. Edward's aunt is a frivolous woman and his cousin, Robert, a drinker and a gambler. He is unceremoniously dragged from luncheon to luncheon where his aunt parades him about like a prize. Then, in the evenings, he retires early or else he will be conned into going out with his cousin. As the weeks go on, it becomes increasingly harder and harder to dodge them.

The establishment Robert favors is little more than a brothel and a rowdy one at that. Men sit crowded together around various tables as they laugh and shout and call out to the girls. There is a mixture of French, English, and German swirling in the din of music. Nothing is truly discernable in the chaos of sound.

They have only been here for an hour and, in that time, Edward's cousin is drunker than he has ever seen him. He is gambling at such a rapid rate that it quickly becomes a joke among the men. The more he loses and the more he drinks, the louder he becomes.

Edward sits to the side, uncomfortable. Alone. He does not gamble, cannot bring himself to as he watches Robert bleed money. He only sips at his drink, stomach churning. The smell of the room is nauseating. It is a miasma of smoke from the hearth, spilled liquor, cigarettes, cigars, and a myriad of colognes. 

The demon, always _lingering_ , is bored. It stands close, gazing about the room in disinterest. This den of vice is nothing new to it. It says nothing. It does not taunt or tempt as girls approach and offer soft touches and filthy words. Edward dismisses each one as gently as he can. He has had women before, enough times to know he will be left feeling empty and unsatisfied.

Eventually, Edward's misery ends. Robert stands from the table, stumbles, and slurs that he is done playing. He bows with a dramatic flourish and nearly falls. Edward has to physically help him into the street. The night air is cooler, but thick with humidity. Sweat clings to them both, leaving a clammy sheen over their skin.

"Weren't you having fun, Ned?" Robert asks. His voice has an odd tone to it, almost mocking. This has happened before, the mocking and fight picking. Up to this point Edward has avoided every reaction. He purses his lips, but does not reply.

The uneven footsteps of his companion stop behind him. Then, nearly shouted, "Is it because there were no boys?"

Edward is mortified. He had wondered, when he first arrived in Paris, if the family rumors had preceded him. It appears they did. A haziness begins to creep into his vision and his hands begin to shake.

"Do not panic," the demon whispers. A chill slides down Edward's spine.

"Come, now, Ned. Don't look so sullen," his cousin continues foolishly. "I'm sure we could find an establishment better suited for you."

"No. We are going home." Edward barely recognizes his commanding tone. He wonders if it even is his voice.

"I think the Navy is a very good choice." There's a maliciousness in Robert's unfocused eyes. "There will be plenty of cocks to suck."

Edward hears himself inhale. There are still people in the street, a number of ears to overhear. The haze descends further, crowding around him. He feels as though he's floating in the heavy night air, like his body is not his own.

"Perhaps they'll have you service all the men. I'm sure you'd be a good whore."

For a single second Edward is aware of stalking forward, of his fist clenching, his arm pulling back, before he's scrambling to stop himself. He tries to grip his own arm, but he has no control. He feels his fist connect with Robert's face and feels his nose crack. He hears the cry of pain, sees the gush of blood, and thinks there may be some on his hand.

His body moves and Edward goes with it. He can see the carefully blank expression on his own face, the rage in the eyes that are not his own. The demon walks with a slow deliberate saunter. It wears Edward's body like an old coat, easy and comfortable.

He watches as it meanders down the streets, looking, searching. He doesn't know where they are, but the demon seems to know precisely what it is doing as it enters a building. He watches himself march up to the proprietor and demand a room, food, wine, and company. He listens to himself ask for a boy, blond and pale eyed. Shame floods Edward hearing such words from his own mouth.

The room is cramped and dingy with naught but a bed and small table. The demon begins to remove clothing by slowly untying his cravat, unbuttoning his collar, removing his waist coast. It holds Edward's gaze as it works him down to shirtsleeves. The knock on the door startles Edward, but not the creature wearing his face.

The young man who enters bears a simple tray of bread, cheese, and a bottle of wine. He is handsome with broad shoulders and long limbs. His golden hair shimmers even in the candle light. Edward watches, fascinated, at the way it moves against his ears. His easy smile is crooked and charming. His eyes are a piercing blue. They unnerve Edward, but the demon seems entranced by them. It reaches out and traces one thumb gently along the delicate skin below the boy's left eye before turning away and continuing to undress.

Setting his tray down, the boy attempts casual conversation as he also removes his clothing. He gets little more than grunts in reply. Truthfully, Edward isn't listening as he watches the flex of muscle when the boy is pushed to the bed. He looks beautiful splayed out even on the graying sheets.

Edward can feel everything. He is both watching and participating and he can _feel_ everything. The smooth skin beneath his hands is warm, while the mouth on his neck is burning hot. The moans and murmurs of the boy vibrate into his chest. When he arches Edward can feel the hard length of him rubbing against his hip. The give of flesh around him makes him cry out with the men on the bed. He is suddenly envious that it is the demon doing this and envious that it is not his name the young man chants. Instead it is a litany of _Lucien, Lucien, Lucien_.

"Look at me." With the simple command, both the boy and Edward are looking at the demon. It's eyes are locked on the boy's, wide and full of lust. Edward thinks this is how it will end as he watches his own body, full of scars he does not recognize, thrust into the pliant body beneath him.

The world goes dark. There is nothing but the sensation of weightlessness. Nothing but the calm peace in the abyss of sleep.

Consciousness washes over him like waves on a shore. Gray light taps at his closed eyelids. The sheets scratch against his bare skin as he stretches one leg out, toes brushing the cold metal of the wire bedframe. To his right there is a rustle of fabric, someone moving about the room.

Edward's eyes snap open and he remembers: the fight with his cousin, the hazy walk, the beautiful boy, the _demon_. He sits up abruptly, taking stock of his body, of its movements. He balls his hands into fists, relaxes them, turns them over. There is a faint smear of blood over two knuckles on his right hand. Bile rises in the back of his throat.

"Good morning, monsieur." Startled, Edward turns wide eyed to see the young man from the night before. He is fully dressed with a coy smile playing at his lips. "You slept well?"

Any fear that his body was still not his own dissipates when the young man slides onto the bed, throws a leg over Edward's hips, and settles back on his thighs. Edward's body feels like it always does to him, heavy and awkward and unsure.

"Hm?" he is prompted as the boy runs his hands down Edward's chest.

He can only manage a soft, "yes" before he is distracted by the gaping collar of the boy's shirt. His neck is littered with bruises, a purpling bite sits just below his clavicle. Caught staring, Edward is given a soft chuckle.

"Perhaps, monsieur, you will call on me again tonight?" A stroke up his ribcage. "And I can give you a few marks of your own?" A stroke down his ribcage.

"Perhaps," Edward whispers.

"Perhaps, hm?" The boy bites his lip before he is off of him. As he crosses to the door he says, "I must go, but it is early yet for you." He turns back for a moment. "Until tonight, monsieur." The door closes with a soft click, but not before Edward is given a wink.

He sits on the bed and feels terror rise in him. It is likely his relationship with his aunt will be sullied forever. The one with his cousin certainly is. He will have to go back to England early, back to his father's disappointment. He drops his head in his hands and tries to calm his breathing.

"Do not panic." 

Edward looks up, suddenly aware of the demon. It stands at the foot of the bed staring out of the room's only window into the grey morning. It looks as it always does: disinterested and cold. Its hair is pushed back away from its face, leaving the disdainful look in the dark eyes on full display.

"What have you done?" he rasps at the creature.

"Nothing that did not need doing."

Edward scoffs. "I needed a fight? I needed…" he gestures around the room, "this?"

"Yes," is the flat answer. "You neglect yourself. Your needs." 

"What do you know of _my_ needs?" 

"Everything."

The demon's piercing stare is too much and Edward looks down. This only reminds him of his state of undress, of what happened in this bed. He pinches his eyes shut as the image of the body beneath him writhing and whimpering sticks to the back of his eyelids. Arousal pools low in his belly at the memory of the pure, raw pleasure. He wants to do it again. But, through all of this, another thought occurs to him.

"Is Lucien your name?"

"Yes." Then, after a beat, "Grimaud. Lucien Grimaud. That is my name." It looks at Edward, waiting. When no reply is offered, it says, "Does this _surprise_ you?"

"I did not…" Edward trails off and shifts uncomfortably. "I did not expect you to have the name of a man."

The indignant look the creature, _Lucien_ , gives him sets a shiver down his spine. "I was a man. Once."

The implication of this has Edward's head spinning. That this being, that has haunted him since boyhood, was ever truly alive is a thought that has never crossed his mind. It astounds him to think of Lucien as a man, to think of it waking or eating or bathing or doing any of the mundane things daily life requires. He would be disinclined to believe it, but for the unfamiliar look that comes across its eyes. If Edward didn't know better, he'd call it sorrow.

"So, you are a ghost, then?" He's hesitant to ask, afraid of the answer. If not a ghost, if not a demon, then what entity is this?

"I do not know what I am. Only that I am bound to you." It's features harden into an expression of mild disgust as he speaks. 

Edward feels a twinge of rejection run through him. Even his own apparition does not want him, is disappointed in him. He rises from the bed with a sense of forlorn surrender. He dresses himself slowly, looking at the bread and cheese left from the night before. His stomach aches, whether from tension or hunger he cannot tell.

"You should eat." The tone is gentle, like it wants to be concerned. "You deny yourself too much."

Anger flares suddenly through Edward. This creature has hounded him for so long, brought him here, brought him low. Yet it stands here judging him. It rejects him. What right does it have to command him?

"What do you care if I eat?" he snaps as he spins around.

But Lucien is right behind him. It grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a rough shake. Tendrils of ice curl around him, setting every hair on end. They are nose to nose. His teeth chatter. Its brow is furrowed in scorn as its snarls at him. The grip on his arms is digging, nearly painful, and he is certain there will be bruises.

"Because your body is also _mine_ ," Lucien grinds out through clenched teeth. "Eat when you hunger. Drink when you thirst. Fuck when you want to fuck." 

Edward is shoved so violently away that his thigh slams into the little table and sends the wine bottle toppling to the floor. It clatters, but does not shatter. He stands breathing heavily with one hand steadying himself. Lucien is simply regarding him, looking down its nose.

"You are pitiful." 

Edward flinches at the words. He sits back on the bed, head hanging between his shoulders. Defeated.

"The world will never give you anything. You have to take it." 

A sound bubbles out of Edward's throat, dangerously close to a sob. He chokes out a quiet, "I don't know how to do that."

There is a soft puff of air against his side as a weight settles next to him. A hand, delicate and cool, is placed on his back. Then, softly in his ear, "I can show you. Teach you. Together there will be nothing we cannot do."

Edward turns his head and feels breath against his lips. They are so close, sharing air. He looks at the mouth of the creature that used to be a man, that has sneered and growled at him, and wants.

He whispers, "Show me."

Lucien closes the small distance between them and Edward feels a familiar warmth washing over him, the familiar haze around his vision. However, he is not watching himself from afar this time. They are occupying the same space. Sharing his body. The sensation of another being inside his skin ripples deep in his gut as Lucien shifts and settles.

Food sits comfortably for once in Edward's stomach as he lets Lucien walk a path back to his aunt's home. He collects his things, let's Lucien tell him what to say, lets it speak when he cannot. In the end the fight is short lived, but fierce. Names are called, accusations are thrown, and Lucien slams the door as Edward walks out.

They return to the brothel and it is Edward who asks for the young man again. It is also Edward who initiates the kisses, but it is Lucien who draws the boy into his lap. It is Lucien who removes clothing, who pours wine down his own chest for the young man to lick off. Together they encourage him to his knees and allow his mouth on them, but it is Edward, and he alone, who slides a hand into his hair.

After, so close to sleep, Edward thinks he hears a wisp of a voice, barely a puff of breath on his cheek, whisper, "Soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features overt **homophobia** and references to violence associated with it. There are also several references to **prostitution**. Lucien possesses Edward to have sex with a young man, putting that **dubious consent** tag to work. The young man is referred to as "boy" several times, but his age is never established. Later, Edward allows Lucien to possess him and they again have sex with the young man.


	3. Even the Joys of Romance and Adventure Soon Grow Stale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward returns home where has an interesting and much needed conversation with Lucien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't set out to get Edward laid in every chapter, but here we are.
> 
> Again, I just want to say that I'm sure The Littles were a wonderful family. I'm sorry I made your brothers so mean, Ned!
> 
> Tommy Jopson appears in the next chapter, I promise.
> 
> Chapter title from "The Hound" by H.P. Lovecraft
> 
> Additional content warnings in the end notes.

Two weeks after his twenty-sixth birthday Edward Little is promoted to the rank of lieutenant and his father smiles at him, genuinely smiles, for the first time in years. All the disappointment and shame that has prevailed through family gatherings in the past seems to evaporate. The light air around the dinner table makes him feel a part of something, like he's finally welcome. All the arguments and turmoil may finally be behind them.

He'll not ruin this. 

Hale is telling a boisterous tale about the time a horse found its way into the tea garden. His wife sits glowing and giggling at his side. Charlotte, newly married herself, keeps her hand clamped tightly on her husband's arm. George is groaning beside Edward, "No, no, we've heard this before." And they have, but the laughter feels much needed.

Later, in their father's study, Edward sips at brandy and tries his best to answer George's questions about what life is like for a Royal Marine on a Navy ship. He only knows a small amount, having been too preoccupied with keeping up his own duties to notice much of others, but George seems content with what little knowledge he has.

The normalcy of it all is surreal and Edward finds he misses it. He's had a room in London for years now, one he only uses between voyages. It's comfortable enough. The landlady doesn't ask too many questions and let's him come and go as he pleases. In that room he can be himself, needs no mask, and he finds such solace in it. But this is different. This comfort feels so resolutely like _home_.

When he excuses himself for bed, he finds Charlotte standing at the door, apparently preparing to do the same. She bids her husband goodnight, takes Edward's arm, and they begin ascending the stairs to their respective rooms. Walking with his sister, here and now, he feels closer to her than he has in years.

It is Charlotte who breaks their amiable silence with: "You should really consider marrying."

Edward sighs and gently tugs his arm out of hers. "Would it not be cruel of me to marry and spend so much time at sea?" Indeed, he does think this to be true. To leave a young woman alone for years at a time seems such a misfortune.

"Certainly you may find a woman who does not mind," Charlotte continues. "You would have something to come home to, Ned. Something to be proud of. Something we all can be proud of." She reaches out a hand and takes one of Edward's. "And we _are_ so proud of you, of everything you've done." With a soft squeeze to his hand, she turns and walks to her room. The chasm between them lengthens with each step she takes.

Everything he's done? What a farce that is. If only they knew his Naval career was more to do with the entity that haunts him than with any actual talent. What would they say? It is Lucien who helps him keep his footing and helps him complete tasks impeccably. It is Lucien who makes acquaintances, allies, _companions_. It is Lucien who shows him how to firmly command.

His eyes had glittered when he said, "I can do it for you."

Edward has listened and tried to learn. He has allowed Lucien liberties, given over control, and it has brought him a promotion. It has brought him to this point. He is a Navy lieutenant standing in his childhood room surrounded by family. What more can he ask for? 

Something sour settles in his stomach.

He knows Lucien is in the room, likely occupying the shadowed space between the curtained windows. He frequently refuses to bear witness to the more domestic scenes and removes himself. But, like all curses, he is never truly gone. He supposes, in some ways, it is unfair to call Lucien a curse. He has aided Edward in many ways. They have what could be called an _understanding_.

He lays back on the bed and thinks, perhaps, Charlotte is right. A wife might do him good. He ponders for a moment about what he would want to come home to, what sort of life he could have. Perhaps there will be horses to keep or dogs. Perhaps he will be missed.

"What would you do with a wife?" Lucien steps out of the shadows to hover at the end of the bed.

"Build a family," Edward offers, unsure if he's asking or stating.

Lucien scoffs quietly. "And what would you do with a family?" He takes a few steps around the bed. "Other than leave them behind for years at a time and return to find they don't know you."

Edward sits up and hugs one knee to his chest. "Perhaps that is what I want?"

"What you want," Lucien drawls, "is your brother's new valet." He leans down and into Edward's space. "So, let's not play this game anymore."

A particularly gruesome game, Edward recalls, that they've played too many times. One memorable occasion took place after an embarrassing episode before the captain of his last ship. He had refused himself all food for two days. Lucien had forcibly taken over and refused to relinquish his hold until all of breakfast was safely settled in this stomach. He has no desire to repeat this or the disorienting sensation of being out of his skin.

"Have him before you go back to London." The blunt words make him flinch. "Ruin him utterly and then send him back to your brother." The tantalizing image makes Edward blush, but he cannot allow temptation now.

"No, I...I'll not ruin this."

Lucien straightens, looking down at Edward in disdain, something he has not done in years. "I do not understand why you care what these people think."

"They are my family," Edward replies, hurt. In the time that has passed since Paris, Edward cannot deny that he has missed the camaraderie of his siblings. He has struggled to express to Lucien that no matter how many companions he takes to his bed or friends he makes, these men are not his brothers.

"Family," Lucien sneers as he crosses his arms. "And they love you, yes? That's why they ask you to be something you are not."

"They only want what's best." Even to his own ears the words sound hollow. This familiar lie, one Edward has told himself countless times, is no easier to believe now than it was seven years ago.

"They want what's best for the _family_ ," Lucien mocks. He leans forward again and grips Edward's shoulders in steady hands. "They want to protect themselves from rumor or scandal by hiding you behind a woman. But a wife will not make you happy, Edward."

He gazes into the fathomless depths of Lucien's eyes. "I do not know what would make me happy," he mutters miserably. One cool hand comes up to cradle his cheek and Edward cannot help leaning into it.

"One day there will be a man who will be everything. No one else will matter. He will be the whole world." Running a thumb softly over Edward's bottom lip, Lucien presses closer. There have been moments, over time, where Lucien's stoic mask of rage allows singular emotions through. It is always sorrow, some inkling of the tragedy of the life he does not speak of.

"Does such a man truly exist?" Edward breaths into the space between them.

"Yes." With the slightest pressure on his lips and their gazes locked, Lucien continues, "We will find him."

Edward closes his eyes as Lucien tilts his chin and presses his open mouth to the trembling line of Edward's own. There is one puff of air against his face before all sensation is gone. When he opens his eyes Lucien is standing, stony faced, shoulders squared. He steps back into the shadows allowing darkness to engulf him entirely before he says, "Go to bed, Edward."

The next fews days prove to be disastrous. His brothers are quarrelsome and petulant and his sister is too polite. His mother barely speaks to him and his father barely looks. He wonders if the warmth of that first night was an illusion, something he so desperately wanted to see. Now, in the harsh light of day, Edward finds himself once again an outcast. He tries to keep to himself by reading in the study and hoping this awkwardness will pass.

It does not.

The topic of a wife comes up several times. His mother urges him to find one before he goes back to sea. His father nearly demands it. Sourness sinks to the pit of his stomach. Edward does not quarrel, does not argue. Eventually, at dinner, he concedes that he will consider it. As he hides his face in his napkin, he hears George snicker beside him. He glances up in time to see the dark look shared between his brothers and the disapproving smirk on Hale's lips.

A sensation of unease settles over him and does not leave even as they retire to the sitting room. Edward takes up a chair in a corner and tries to focus on a book that holds no interest. His brothers sit together, smoking and talking, by the happily crackling fire. The warmth of the hearth does not reach his lonely corner. Lucien stands beside him, silent and watchful.

Edward only half listens to the conversation. He hears Hale and George talk about the new year. They discuss travel plans, career paths, and household issues. But the thing they linger on the longest is, of all things, babies. Hale seems to think there will be one by the autumn. Whether his or Charlotte's, it doesn't matter. 

He loses the trail of the conversation as it occurs to him that he will likely be at sea for all of these events. Most of them are missable, easily made up for with apologies and gifts. It is the birth of a niece or nephew, especially the first, that sits poorly with Edward. He wonders if he might be able to find a ship that would have him back by December.

"Not like our Neddy." Laughter pulls him out of his reverie. Edward is not sure which of his brothers spoke and, when he glances up, neither of them are looking at him.

He must make some quizzical sound because, with a wave of his pipe and a fleeting look, Hale says, "Don't mind us, Ned."

Edward has never felt so dismissed. He is sitting here trying to come up with ways to shape his life to better suit his family's needs. He is trying, despite the awkwardness of the last few days, to fabricate a way to be a part of the family. And they dismiss him. They don't try to include him. They ask him to be different. Anger rises hot and sharp up the back of his neck. He stands abruptly, bids a rushed goodnight, and barrels out of the room.

He does not belong here. He will not stay.

He runs nearly headlong into Hale's handsome blond valet. The steadying hands on his chest ground him and undo him. He insinuates and implies that the man would be welcome in his room. The words surprise him as they leave his mouth. Lucien watches from shadows as Edward retreats to pack his meager belongings, a vague note of pride lingering on his dark brow.

The knock comes late, long after everyone is safely abed. That Edward has not lost his nerve with his cooling anger is a miracle. The man is startlingly beautiful: broad shouldered, slender, and golden. They simply gaze at each other for a moment before he laughs easily. The musical note to it soothes Edward. The man yields readily, eagerly. He looks triumphant splayed beneath a lover and it all feels like a celebration.

In the morning he does his best not to wake the man. He leaves him sleeping soundly and wrapped in the sheets. Some small part of him hopes they will find him naked and debauched and know precisely what happened. Edward gathers his case and walks, determined, out of the house. Lucien is barely a step behind him. He does not look back.

Beside him Lucien breathes, "Good."

Once he arrives in London he signs on to the HMS Donegal and does not care where she is going.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features a good amount of **homophobia**. Edward's family pushes him to get married despite knowing he'd be unhappy in a marriage. To me, this is the most insidious form of homophobia. Edward makes brief reference to **self harm** when he recounts refusing to eat after embarrassing himself. Heed those **manipulation and gaslighting** tags because Lucien is a master of both.
> 
> But was the valet discovered in Edward's bed? Likely not. But I think the family probably noticed his new limp.


	4. Where Beauty's Veil Doth Cover Every Blot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward joins the crew of The Terror on an expedition to the Arctic where he meets Thomas Jopson. A single moment alone with the man changed the course of Edward's life forever…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Shakespearean Sonnet XCV
> 
> I took some liberties with the ship layout. Jopson really just wanted to get Ned alone and is adding storerooms if how we do it, so be it.
> 
> This is the tamest chapter by far, but get ready, fellas, Chapter Five gets spicy.
> 
> Lucien and Edward sure do a whole lot of almost kissing, don't they?

Standing on the deck of The Terror, overseeing the transportation of supplies into their overwinter camp on Beechey Island, Edward Little is thirty-three. A scant few years ago he would've disbelieved anyone who told him he would grow to miss the thick air of the Tropics. It clung to his throat and collected on his skin and coated everything in a warm layer of damp. Worst of all was how it fluffed his hair, making it so unmanageable that the steward's only recommendation was to cut it.

The air of the Arctic is different. It is damp to be sure, from sea or snow above decks and from sweat below, but it is also sharp and cruel. The first breath in the open air hurts in Edward's lungs each morning. He tries to take his pipe before breakfast, as Mr. Blanky recommended, and a scalding cup of tea after to lessen the sting, but it often does not cover his full body shiver. If the men think him weak for it, they do not say.

Standing out in the open, cataloging and checking off each item as they leave Terror's hold, Edward has never been so grateful for his whiskers. They don't provide much by way of protection, but they are, at the very least, a layer between his skin and the wind. He is almost envious of the men as they lift and haul crate after crate ashore. They have the fortune of working up a sweat under their wool coats while Edward, fixed here, freezes to his toes.

This task does not truly belong to him, but John Irving had a particular way he wished it to be done. The man, himself, is ashore cataloging and checking off each item he receives. He had demanded Edward's aid, insisting a lieutenant must make sure only the approved items left the ship. He chuckles quietly at the memory of the beseeching look in John's eyes.

In the six months they've been at sea, Edward has come to quite like his fellow lieutenants. He has garnered a reputation of being stern and solemn for himself. George Hodgson, on the other hand, is friendly. Though he can be frivolous at times, he is entirely harmless and the men seem to like him. John Irving is a meticulous and God fearing man. The more pious of the crew seek him out for practical advice. While Edward is very careful not to speak of his proclivities, he's fairly certain John could prove to be a true friend. 

"Excuse me, Lieutenant Little," a voice says, catching Edward's attention away from the number of bottles he is counting. When he turns, he is face to face with the captain's steward, Thomas Jopson.

If asked, Edward will say it is the shifting wind that steals the breath from him and decidedly _not_ the startling blue of Jopson's eyes.

"Yes, Mr. Jopson," Edward replies with a soft clearing of his throat. He is pleased to note his voice does not shake. "Are you in need of something?"

The man is beautiful. In the pale cool light his skin seems to glow. The inky black of his hair is perfectly cut and styled even as the wind knocks a single lock from position. Turning his head with a small smile as he tucks said lock back into place, Jopson hunches his shoulders, curling in on himself. It is an attempt to make himself appear smaller, less imposing, and is likely something he has learned in his years as a steward.

"Sir, we've moved a crate from a storeroom," Jopson begins, meeting Edward's eyes again and holding them openly. "I have need to move it back and no one to help me."

"Of course." Edward feels foolish with how quickly the reply leaves his lips. He is deeply aware he is answering a question that has not been asked. Nevertheless, he hands his list over to a mate with instructions to do exactly as the paper says and follows Jopson's broad shoulders down the ladder.

"Thank you, sir. I do appreciate this," Jopson is saying as they make their way through the orlop. His voice is soft, apologetic, as they come to a stop. "It's just that all my help was called away." 

"Never fear, Mr. Jopson, we'll get it sorted," Edward replies while he fiddles with the hat in his hands, removed sometime after descending to the lower deck. He is watched for a moment before the hat is taken from him and placed on a box of tinned stew. Their fingers brush and Edward's mouth goes dry, his tongue thick. He manages only a mumble of thank you before turning back to their task.

The crate is very heavy and sitting at an awkward angle to the storeroom door. They lift it together, but stumble slightly on maneuvering it around the doorframe. Edward feels perspiration on his forehead as snow melts in his hair and leaves it lank and cold against his neck. An odd sensation settles over his shoulders and into his chest, like a shiver that's stuck on his sternum.

When the crate is finally situated, Jopson leans back against a shelf breathing heavily. Similarly afflicted, Edward straightens and sniffs, the warmer air and exertion having loosened his near frozen sinuses. A single dull throb pounds through his head. A curious thing. Edward has never been predisposed to headaches, but, he supposes, new issues are bound to arise in this climate.

He looks at the steward with a sheepish grin and gets the same in reply. The pink in Jopson's cheeks is charming and his dimples are a delight. They brighten his features even in the shadowed belly of the ship. However, it is the full lips that draw Edward's gaze. Plump and bitten red, he cannot seem to look away. He thinks he would very much like to touch them, press a fingertip to their very center, or taste them and lick them open. Arousal spikes through him. It is so sharp he nearly startles and he is certain he has given something away when the smile vanishes on the steward's face.

"Oh, Lieutenant," Jopson says as he quickly steps forward, "You're bleeding."

The dull throb beats between his eyes again. He presses one hand to his forehead, feels cold sweat, and clenches his eyes shut. Confused for a moment, Edward cannot imagine why his nose itches. He taps his middle finger gently to his upper lip. It comes away wet with a droplet of blood smeared on his fingertip. He stares at it, dumbfounded.

"Sir." Jopson is suddenly beside him. He produces a handkerchief out of seemingly nowhere and holds it up to Edward's eyes. Before he can say anything, the handkerchief is being pressed to his face and a strong pair of fingers are clamping over his nose. Jopson's unoccupied left hand is resting firmly on Edward's shoulder, pressing insistently.

Edward is only distantly aware that Jopson is guiding him to sit on some box or another. His mind seems unable to function as his head begins to ache in earnest. He does not miss, however, that their knees touch briefly or just how close Jopson's hand is to his mouth. Surely he can feel Edward's breath on his palm even through the handkerchief. What about the heat of his blushing cheeks? Can he, standing so close, hear the rapid beating of his heart?

There is a hand in the damp hair at the base of his neck. It is large and burning hot on his chilled nape. Fingers grip him as they gently, but firmly, tilt his head back.

"There we are, Lieutenant," the steward continues in a casual tone. "I'm afraid it's the cold. Happened often in the Antarctic, but you should be right as rain in a moment or two, sir." 

Edward gazes resolutely at the storeroom ceiling. He will not betray what he is feeling. It would be unbecoming of a man of his rank, a gross abuse of power. He must be stronger than his base desires to keep order on the ship. He gasps, loud as thunder, when he feels a soft stroke against the delicate skin behind his ear. He snaps his gaze to Jopson, all thought of control leaving him.

The man is staring back at him, his eyes are a deep bottomless blue, so like the yawning chasm of the sea. Edward imagines he could drown in them or else live forever and never have need of air again. An amused smirk plays at the corner of Jopson's mouth as he repeats the movement _deliberately_. Edward gasps again, allowing air to puff out over Jopson's hand, then brings his own hand up to grasp an elbow. It's a loose hold, almost trembling, and provides an easy escape if Edward has misread the situation. 

Jopson's pupils dilate.

For a split second, with his head back and neck bared, Edward feels exposed. He feels too open even as steady fingers hold him in place. The ache between his eyes feels distant, but the ache in his chest feels dangerous.

Above them the sound of a bell ringing, harsh and shrill, is just audible.

Jopson's hands are off of him in a flash. Cold air swirls around Edward's face as he takes one deep breath. He sees the clean white of the handkerchief, as it's pulled away, dotted with blood and feels a pang of guilt as he stands.

"It seems to have stopped, sir." Jopson comments as he surveys the shelves one last time before urging Edward out.

"I've quite ruined that. Your handkerchief," Edward remarks as they leave the storeroom. As Jopson locks it, handkerchief still in hand, he replies, "No, no, sir. It's quite alright."

Another pang of guilt assaults him. To have likely ruined what could be Jopson's only handkerchief, when he himself has so many, feels like a sin. He reaches into a pocket and produces his own. When the other man turns, Edward offers it to him unceremoniously.

"Do take mine. Please."

Jopson looks at the piece of fabric warily. His eyes land on the monogrammed "E-L" on a singular corner before he looks into Edward's face. "Oh, no, sir. That won't be necessary." 

Though the dull throb in his head is rapidly becoming a persistent pounding, Edward cannot pull himself away from those pale eyes. They root him to the spot, wrap cool tendrils around his legs, and refuse to let him go. It must be some form of sorcery, for he seems suspended here for eternity, cannot breathe or blink.

The bell rings again forcing Jopson to turn his head and break the spell. He tucks the soiled fabric into the pocket of his waistcoat.

"I must go to the captain, sir." He does not look back at Edward as he moves swiftly across the hold and up the ladder.

In the shadows cast by the feeble light of the lamps, Lucien is ever watchful. He is an ever present thought at the back of Edward's mind, so common and so constant that he barely recognizes it anymore. They command in the same voice, so much so that Edward is never certain who is speaking. They have worked together to build his careful facade and Lucien is determined not to see it crumble. He observes everything, all those little things Edward cannot see, and uses it all to wrap a thick armor around his soft belly.

In the cold Arctic light Lucien's features seem in sharper focus. Even in the dim light of the hold his features do not appear blurred. There is something more tangible about him, like any of the men could touch him. Like, moments ago, he could have placed one very real hand on Jopson's back and felt warmth through the layers of wool.

Edward's head throbs as a familiar, but long forgotten, sense of fear crawls up his spine.

"He's pretty," Lucien says as he closes the small distance between them. He crowds into Edward's space bringing with him a bitter chill and the scent of rainwater. He tilts his head and leans in to whisper, "Do you think he's pretty, Edward?"

With a shaking inhale he breathes into Lucien's lips, "You know I do." He can feel the smirk curling against his mouth.

A bright pain lances through Edward's head, just above his left eye. He cannot contain the wince as he turns away and presses the heel of his hand to his forehead. The pain lingers.

"What's the matter?" The clipped tone of Lucien's voice as he pulls back is the cutting edge of a knife. 

"Nothing," Edward dismisses, waving a hand. "I must get back. Before I'm missed."

"Alright," Lucien says, stepping aside. His black eyes watch Edward as he steadies himself. Taking a deep breath, he moves to leave when he hears, "Wait."

Edward turns and sees Lucien extending his arm between them. Hanging off his fingers is Edward's hat, picked up from the crate of tins. Taking it, their hands brushing and the touch almost warm, Edward stares. The sense of fear returns to drape itself over his shoulders as Lucien, never wavering, disappears into the shadows.

The headache does not leave him and, by dinner, he has seen Dr. Peddie and been sent to bed. Mr. Gibson leaves a tray with a half cold cup of tea and a bowl of flavorless broth. Both hold no interest for Edward who has been told to sleep.

Sleep does not come. Though he's sure it will help the pain, he cannot settle. Anxiety gnaws at his stomach. He has never experienced such an ailment before. Certainly nothing so severe or for so long. He feels as though his body is out of sync. It feels odd. _Wrong._

Well after the other officers have gone to bed and Gibson has collected the untouched tray, Edward is sitting in bed with the lamp still watching Lucien pace. He is restless, like a caged beast, making circuits of Edward's berth in slow deliberate steps. He pauses before the cabin door on every other rotation, turns his head to look, and then continues on. It is as though he is impatient, waiting for something. 

There is a soft knock at the door. Edward starts, having finally begun to doze. Lucien stills before he sinks into the shadowed corner. Edward gives a low call for admittance. The door slides open to allow Jopson into the room, tea tray held on one arm.

"Good evening, sir," Jopson begins. "I hope you don't mind, but I heard you weren't feeling well. I thought a hot cup of tea might do some good."

How could Edward ever mind? How could he ever look at this man, blushing and dimpled, and refuse him? What a dangerous thought _that_ is. He should refuse, turn him away, and ask to never be disturbed again. But how can he say no to such earnest kindness?

"Thank you, Mr. Jopson," Edward finally manages. He is too aware that he is clad only in his nightshirt and that his head is still aching. "You needn't have worried."

"Oh, sir," Jopson is saying as he places the tray on the desk. "I feel quite responsible, having asked you to lift so heavy a crate." He hands over the steaming cup with practiced ease.

"You could not have known." Edward sips at the tea. It is strong and bitter and unlike any tea he's had before.

"Let me take the blame." Jopson is so resolute, so certain, that Edward is, for a moment, convinced the steward _is_ to blame. A terribly absurd thought.

Jopson tucks a strand of hair behind his ear and smiles gently. Behind him Lucien lingers, still and silent. There is naked desire written across his cold features and lust in his eyes. Beneath it sits an unreadable expression, one Edward has never seen before. He gazes back, then at Jopson. Shame floods his belly. His want is undeniable and all he can do is hope that it's not as blatant as Lucien's. He downs the rest of the hot tea to hide any incriminating emotions.

"Better, sir?" Jopson asks as he takes the empty cup.

In truth, Edward is feeling much better. The deep ache between his eyes is ebbing away. In its wake the fuzzy blankness of sleep begins to fold over him. He mumbles an affirmation, but finds he cannot quite form words. Warmth radiates down his limbs and his head bobs. He allows Jopson to help him settle back and pull the bedclothes up around him. 

"Good night, Lieutenant." 

With his head on his pillow and his headache nearly gone, Edward sees the coy smile on Jopson's lips when he stands and turns away. He closes his eyes and finds they are too heavy to open again. As sleep wraps its arms around him, Edward imagines he hears, "Hello, darling."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No heavy warnings for this chapter. There are a few brief mentions of **blood** as it pertains to a **nose bleed**.


	5. Eyes Whose Blue Seemed Subtly To Have Deepened

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Edward begins to have strange dreams, he is no longer able to deny his attraction to Thomas Jopson. As the ice draws closer, Lucien grows more and more impatient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change (for the sake of caution) and some tag edits.
> 
> Title from "Beyond the Wall of Sleep" by H.P. Lovecraft.
> 
> This chapter puts the dubious consent tags into full effect. Be aware. Details in end notes.
> 
> It just gets weirder and sadder from here.

Edward Little is thirty-four and there is a shadowed figure walking the decks of Terror. It stands at his cabin door and taps lightly at the wood. A voice speaks, low and distorted, and he cannot understand what it's saying. It moves away, footsteps echoing, and he is compelled to follow it. He steps out of his berth and finds nothing in the silent corridor. The door to the great cabin is ajar. As he makes his way toward it, he can see movement just beyond.

He pushes the door open.

There is nothing there. The cabin is cold and empty. There is no sign of the captain, no sign of any crewman. Edward stands in the center of the room gazing into the black abyss behind the glass of the windows. Dread coils low in the pit of his stomach. He begins to tremble. Something moves out in the dark, large and lurking. 

Old. 

_Wrong._

Rooted to the spot, every hair on end, he feels a hot breath on the back of his neck. Something sharp presses into the delicate skin below his chin and runs slowly across his jaw. Edward sobs as the creature presses itself to his back. A clawed hand grips his throat while a gentle pressure settles on his shoulder. Breath puffs against the side of his face as teeth and tongue lave his ear. Edward whimpers, tears sliding down his face. The creature licks one away. Its chuckle is insidious.

A deep guttural voice growls, "Mine."

Edward bolts upright, breathing heavily with tears in his eyes, to find himself alone in his dark berth. Not entirely alone, of course, as Lucien sits next to him with a hand on his shoulder. He looks almost sympathetic as he says, "It was just a dream."

He is not sure he believes that. He cannot shake the phantom touch or the fear that still sits in his breast. "It felt so real," Edward murmurs in a broken voice.

"That will happen," Lucien soothes. "The mind can do many things. It must be stress."

Edward has, in the past, experienced anxiety induced nightmares. They are infrequent, but not uncommon. It has never been like this before. He supposes it could simply be the proximity to the Arctic circle, the magnetic pull, or the growing amount of ice in the water. Perhaps, too, it's the three men they lost on Beechey.

The ordeal sits heavy in Edward's chest. 

The men had been in high spirits. They were not so far into the journey that the sunless days didn't have their novelty and the men took it in stride. Christmas celebrations had been good natured and jovial. Morale seemed high. Then they lost two men within five days of the new year and the whole mood shifted. A quiet fell over the frozen bay that connected Terror and Erebus to the island proper. 

The ships' surgeons assured everyone it was likely both men had been afflicted with other ailments and they should not fear. But rumors bubbled around the crews that something had to have happened, something wrong, something unnatural. Strict orders were given to discourage such discourse. All was well. All _is_ well. And the men eventually began to believe it.

But Edward has not been able to quell his worry. His headaches, though not persistent, have not been truly cured. When they strike it seems nothing will soothe them, save the occasional tea from Jopson. He worries they are a sign of something worse, something far more dangerous. Dr. Peddie is certain they are a byproduct of the cold, the changed diet, and they will sort themselves out. Edward is somewhat eased by this.

Then they lost the marine in the Spring, just before they set sail again. It was another shock to the crews, but better received, and the heavy spirits that had plagued them before did not persist. For Edward, however, it has only rekindled his worry.

So, perhaps it truly is stress.

He is up and half dressed by the time Mr. Gibson's soft knock comes to the door. Gibson's sullen demeanor and detached expression provides a sense of calm. Nothing is amiss on the ship. There is no creature stalking or lurking just out of sight. As his collar is righted Edward takes a deep steadying breath. It was just a dream after all.

He is the last to leave the breakfast table, having taken a second cup of tea. He hopes it will chase the loss of sleep away from him. When he stands to exit the mess, he is stuck in the doorframe by the great shaggy mass of the ship's dog. It growls low in its throat, a warning. Edward takes a step forward, meaning to step past, only to be greeted by a soft menacing bark. The dog leans forward and growls louder.

"Neptune!" Jopson's voice cuts in sharply. "None of that!" He rushes into the space between dog and query, shooing the animal away. "Out with you." The creature whines and flinches. "Out!"

Neptune slinks, still growling, down the corridor.

"Dreadfully sorry, sir," Jopson says as he turns back to Edward.

"Don't be, please. The dog simply doesn't like me," he nearly laughs in reply.

"It doesn't like me either, sir," Jopson continues with a gentle smile. "It was I who had to ban it from the officer's mess. Nearly tripped on it twice." His expression falls serious, his tone incredulous. "And, when we weren't looking, it would lick from the plates!" 

Edward does laugh this time. "I am grateful, Mr. Jopson."

"If the creature must hate me for some sense of decorum, then it must," the steward replies resolutely.

The passionate light in Jopson's eyes is entrancing. The determined set of his jaw gives his face a commanding demeanor. It's fascinating. Edward cannot help his smile as he says, with far too much fondness, "It's hard to imagine any creature hating you."

Jopson's blue eyes go round as they gaze at Edward. He blinks twice, but does not say anything. Edward knows that he has given too much away. There is no denying they have been dancing around each other, but to say something so unguarded, so uninvited, could ruin everything. 

The captain calls for Jopson from inside the great cabin. He nods once and is gone, leaving Edward alone with his folly. Duties call and he does not have the time to fret. If he is harsher to the men than normal, they have the courtesy not to say anything. If Edward has a suspicion that Lucien's frustration is leaching into his command, he keeps it to himself. 

In the weeks that follow he avoids Jopson in every way he can. He does not look at him during meals, walks in opposite directions, and presents Hodgson or Irving in his stead. When he must speak to the man he is crisp and direct with no fuss or fanfare. The whole thing makes Edward feel guilty. Jopson does not deserve to be treated like this. If Edward were a stronger man, he'd confront this head on and be done with it.

Lucien seethes with quiet rage in Edward's peripherals. Gone is the sympathy he had so briefly shown. Gone is the comforting hands and gentle words. When Edward wakes, gasping, from another nightmare he offers nothing but a dark scowl. Lucien thinks him a coward, infirm and incapable. He has tried for years to break Edward of his habit of shame and Edward has, once again, disappointed him.

The feelings of uncertainty pervade Edward's thoughts even as Captain Crozier asks for Terror's command in the great cabin. The ice has gotten denser and the captain expresses his concerns. Mr. Blanky, the ice master himself, reassures him that Erebus has had little trouble breaking it up and neither she nor Terror have suffered any damage. The captain takes little comfort in anything save his whiskey bottle and, by his fourth or fifth glass, it is Edward who must dismiss Hodgson and Irving. Crozier stumbles into his own berth not long after with Jopson close behind.

"Get some sleep, lad," Mr. Blanky says with a sigh as he exits.

Edward sits staring at the charts littered over the table. What if leads close? What if they do get caught in ice? How long do they have before they'll be forced to abandon ship? What if this whole expedition was for naught? Dread spreads through him and settles cold in the pit of his stomach.

He startles when the papers before him begin to move and he looks up to see Jopson beginning to tidy them away. They are alone together for the first time in weeks. He meets Edward's gaze and holds it steadily. In his blue eyes is an accusation that fills Edward with a fresh wave of guilt. He looks away. It's far better that Jopson see his cowardice than the storm of emotion brewing within him.

While Lucien has not spoken to Edward in days, his presence feels stronger. He is always near, at an elbow or just behind, but in this moment there is an undeniable physicality to him. He presses closer and Edward can feel Lucien curling around him, sinking in. A familiar haze settles over him. He doesn't fight as Lucien takes control, as he is gently pushed from his own body. It has been years since this last happened, years since he's watched Lucien wear his face.

Jopson has turned his back, is replacing something on a shelf, and Edward wonders, if he were to turn, would he see the pair of them? Or would he see only Lucien's cold smug expression on Edward's face? Would he balk at the naked desire on display or return it? Would he be appalled? Or enthralled?

Jopson does not get the chance to turn around as Lucien crowds up behind him and presses him firmly into the shelf. Edward can do nothing but watch. Jopson lets out a sharp breath and steadies himself with one hand. He turns his head, opens his mouth to make some sound, but manages only a second gasp as Lucien leans in and traps him with both arms.

Edward watches Lucien press his face to the back of Jopson's neck. He noses at the dark hair, inhaling deeply, then drags his lips along his collar. One hand grips Jopson's chin, fingers curling into his cheek, and pulls his head back to expose the long expanse of his neck. Lucien kisses the skin beneath his mouth, licks behind an ear. Edward watches, transfixed, as his own teeth rake down an earlobe and bite at the pulse beating just below Jopson's jaw. Lucien grips slender hips with his free hand, pulls them flush to his own, and ruts once against the man.

Edward is slammed full force back into his own body. He inhales so sharply it almost hurts and he is left disoriented. Then, all at once, his senses come back to him. He can feel the warmth of skin against his lips, taste the salt of it against his tongue. He can smell sweat and wool, the pomade in Jopson's hair, and a deep earthy scent that is uniquely the man's own. Edward curls impossibly closer.

Beneath his hand he feels the roughness of Jopson's stubble against his fingers. He runs his thumb across soft lips. Jopson makes a small noise and Edward can feel it vibrating through his throat. He can feel the steward shift against him, pressing back, knows he must feel the hard line of his arousal.

Edward stills when he feels sharp teeth nip at his thumb, the tip of a tongue taps against him, and then the whole of the digit is engulfed in the wet heat of Jopson's mouth. For a moment there are no thoughts in Edward's head, nothing but what it means to be standing here with this man in his arms. 

In the great cabin. 

Where anyone could walk in. 

He panics and forces Jopson away from himself so quickly the man nearly loses his balance.

Out of the room in three quick strides, Edward is in his berth with the door firmly shut before any call can be made after him. It is late and the lit lamp has begun to burn low. Edward leans heavily against the door, gasping for air. He buries his face in shaking hands.

"What a fool you are." Lucien is standing before him, arms crossed. Anger burns in his dark eyes. "He was practically panting for you."

"There is too much danger in this," Edward says, dragging himself away from the door. He hears a scoff.

"Danger? You want him. Have him." 

It has always been that simple for Lucien. Take the things you want, refuse any consequence. Edward feels fury come over him. This is not always how the world works, it cannot be. He cannot _always_ have what he wants. He turns and faces his demon.

"Have him? A subordinate, in a common area where anyone could walk in, and on a ship where the punishment for such things is a flogging at best and a hanging at worst? That is danger, Lucien." Edward lowers his voice to hiss, "Jopson could go to the captain, name me the brutish deviant I am. My whole career, my life, is at stake!" 

It is immediately apparent that is the wrong thing to say. Lucien is suddenly upon him, tightly gripping his shoulders, and snarling into his face.

"Your _career_?" He growls. "You mean the career I gave you? You do nothing, make no choice, take no risk, lest I have told you do so." His fingers dig so hard into Edward's flesh he's sure there will be bruises. "You are _here_ because of me!"

Edward cannot deny this. He is only what Lucien has made him. He looks down, concedes, and feels the grip on him gentle. Lucien leans in closer, placing one hand on his cheek. The scent of rainwater fills his nostrils, familiar by now, but underneath is something else and Edward cannot place it.

"He's so pretty," Lucien whispers. "You want him."

Edward gazes up into dark eyes and sees only desire. Lucien has never wanted a man as openly as this. He has only encouraged Edward toward his own pleasure, never truly taken for himself. Until now. Without thinking, before he can stop himself, Edward breathes, "You want him."

Lucien's expression darkens. He runs both hands through Edward's hair and brings their faces close. "Yes," comes the reply, barely audible. He feels the full press of Lucien's body against his own. Impossibly hot, impossibly real, as Lucien growls, "Give him to me."

Edward trembles as Lucien strokes fingers against his scalp. He nods. "I'll find him. Apologize."

"No," Lucien breathes. "He'll come to you. To us." He presses his lips to the corner of Edward's mouth. There is a comfort in this. Edward closes his eyes and tilts his head, asking for something Lucien has never fully given him.

The soft knocking at the door surprises neither of them. Lucien pulls away, disentangling himself, a lopsided smirk playing at his lips. "Like knows like" is all he says when he steps back.

Edward slides the door open slowly to reveal Jopson standing upon the threshold. His blue eyes bore into Edward's own. He makes some small gesture with his arm, showing that he is holding a coat. 

"You left your coat, sir," Jopson says, quietly so his voice will not carry down the corridor. "Shall I, sir?" He nods to the berth and Edward catches the small smile on Jopson's face.

"Yes, of course. Thank you," Edward replies as he steps out of the doorframe. 

Jopson enters, closing the door behind him, and then goes about hanging the garment. He smooths his hands over the wool, wiping away any crease, before he turns to Edward. "I believe we have something to discuss, sir."

"Mr. Jopson, I-," Edward begins. "I'm frightfully sorry. My behavior has been unbecoming of an officer."

"Indeed, sir," Jopson says, but that same small smile is still on his lips. "Your behavior has been very inappropriate." Edward opens his mouth to speak, but is silenced by a raised hand. "I've had a suspicion, sir, that you and I share a similarity. I had _hoped_ that you might be, well, inappropriate."

Jopson takes several steps forward. When he reaches Edward he places his hands on his chest and caresses the wool with the tips of his fingers. He steps again and Edward is proud of himself for not flinching when their bodies are pressing nearly hip to hip. Jopson's eyes are luminous in the dim light, but his cheeks are pink. 

"I was beginning to think," Jopson continues, "I had misread the situation." One dimple forms as he smiles and slides one hand down Edward's chest to press against the front of his trousers. Edward gasps as Jopson cups his hard cock. "But I didn't, did I, sir?"

"No," Edward manages around the lump in his throat. 

That gets a chuckle, low and deep. The hand between his thighs strokes gently against him. Edward shivers at the sensation.

"Like knows like, sir." Jopson tilts his head and leans in, inhaling. "I could practically smell it on you. The want. The _desire_." He presses warm lips to Edward's jaw, just where his whiskers are thinnest. "I learned a long time ago that I had to take what I wanted out of life." He pulls back and looks Edward in the eye. "And what I want right now, sir, is you."

Edward searches for any sign of apprehension. He searches for any indication of fear or uncertainty. He finds only lust in the young open face before him. Lucien is pressed to his back, his own hands on Edward's hips. He's whispering, "Let me have him. Let me. _Let me_." 

Edward surrenders. He steps out of himself and allows Lucien his body. He moves behind them to sit on his bed, an outsider in his own space. He watches his own expression change, harden, darken. Lucien raises one hand to the back of Jopson's head, runs soft fingers through the hair, before gripping it tightly and forcing the other man's head back.

"There we are," Jopson hisses with a broad grin before Lucien smashes their mouths together. 

It's not a kiss in any of the ways that Edward has ever been kissed before. Lucien bites at Jopson's lips and licks them after. He does not let up, holding the steward's head exactly where he wants it. Jopson gives as good as he gets, returning the bites and licks and pulling at Lucien's hair. Edward blushes at the slick sounds of their tongues, so loud in the room.

When Lucien moves to suck and bite down Jopson's exposed throat, he pulls away, taking a step back. He begins working at the buttons of his waistcoat. His lips are swollen red and his pupils are blown nearly black. He does not blink as he grins.

"Will you have my mouth, sir?" he asks, folding his waistcoat over the desk chair and beginning to pull his shirt from his trousers. "Or will you fuck me?"

Lucien growls, "Both." He begins tearing at Edward's own clothes. A button pops and lands with a soft clatter on the floor. Jopson tsks and moves forward, half dressed himself, to finish undressing Lucien properly.

The lust does not leave Edward as he watches them together. He can feel everything even as he sees and hears it. The warmth of flesh beneath his own hands, the press of Jopson's cock hard against his thigh, and Jopson's hand hot on his own. His wet mouth trails down his chest as he drops to his knees. Jealousy coils through Edward as Lucien grips the glossy black hair and groans when Jopson takes him into his mouth.

Edward can feel this, too, but it feels muted. Like the memory of sensation more than the act itself. He cannot see Jopson's face, only his spread knees on the floor. He stands and moves, haltingly, until they are before him. The sight is startling. Jopson's mouth is stretched wide around his prick, his head bobbing. Lucien is panting, but he is looking at Edward. He holds his unoccupied hand out.

"Come here," he murmurs and Edward inhales deeply before taking the offered hand. 

Stepping back into his body brings an onslaught of sensation: The slick heat of Jopson's mouth and the tickling pressure of his hand on Edward's bullocks are overwhelming. Lucien is pressing next to him, refusing to relent the harsh grip he has on Jopson's hair. Edward is caressing the side of his face. When he pulls off with a truly obscene sound, Jopson's face is red and his eyes are glazed. He stares up at them and asks with his wet lips, "Please, sir."

Edward had done this many times and it is clear he is not Jopson's first. The man knows what to ask for, how to articulate what he likes, and Edward and Lucien both rally to accommodate. Lucien's hands are rough and quick. His teeth catch and drag over sensitive flesh. Edward tries to be softer. He is thorough with his fingers and slow to press in a second. He runs a calming tongue over irritated flesh and tries to soothe.

In the end it is Lucien who takes over. Edward does not mind. Jopson's body is a wonder to caress and kiss. Lucien's hips snap hard in rough thrusts that leave Jopson gasping. He is relentless, lifting long legs to wrap around his hips. Edward swallows the cries of pleasure and sweeps gentle hands down Jopson's sides. When he comes it is Lucien who clamps the hand over his mouth. He pulls Edward to him and, together, they find their release in Jopson's lax body. 

Edward collapses to the bed beneath them, panting. His skin feels flushed in the cool air and he is grateful when the blanket is tugged up around him. Sleep washes over him and, as he falls into it, someone laughs.

He knows he is dreaming as the black curtain of unconsciousness gives way to muddy gray. He has been here before, in this vast wasteland of nothing. It is a desert of rock and sun where nothing survives. It is some strange plateau his mind devised to send him wandering even in oblivion.

He knows he is dreaming and there is someone with him. He cannot see them, only knows they are behind him. He turns. The world tilts. He lays prone in a warm embrace. The body next to him is impossibly hot and breathing too fast. Hands snake around him. One cradles his head while the other sits on his abdomen. The flesh feels...odd. Edward looks down. Black claws tap lightly at his navel.

Fear thrums through his chest as sharp teeth bite at his neck. There must be blood flowing over the creature's tongue. It licks and sucks at the wound, but there is no pain, instead it aches like an old bruise. Claws slide against his skin and he tries to move away, certain they will slice through the tender flesh of his belly, but he is trapped. His limbs will not move as he is caressed in a parody of a lover's embrace.

"Are you not afraid?" a low voice hisses into his ear. 

Yes, he is afraid. He is so very afraid, but when he opens his mouth to speak it is not his voice that comes out.

"Nothing can hurt me," he feels his mouth say. "Not anymore."

The hands around Edward tighten, then relax. The creature shifts to move its hot heaving mass atop him as it wraps one hand around his throat. It brings its face close. The eyes that stare into his are the color of the sky, so pale they are nearly white. Edward gasps.

The creature snarls, "Nothing will ever take you from me again."

With a great shove he is forced backward, falling into a swirling chasm that yawns open beneath him. He sees the creature entwined with a man and watches as the man allows its mouth to his. This monster means to devour him, to consume him whole. The darkness of the abyss closes around him and spares him the gruesome sight.

Edward blinks himself awake. There is barely any light left in his berth. He stretches out and finds himself alone in his bed, but the soft rustle of fabric catches his ear. He turns his head toward the sound, wincing at the dull pain in his neck. As Edward sits up, rubbing the tender spot, he notes Jopson sitting at the desk chair righting a boot. Their eyes meet and Jopson smiles warmly.

"Please, sir, don't think I'm the sort who would leave a lover to wake alone," he whispers fondly. His voice is soothing, a balm to Edward's disquiet thoughts. "But you looked so peaceful." Even in the near dark his eyes shine.

"I was having a strange dream," Edward murmurs. He's not certain he's entirely awake with the fuzzy sensation of sleep still lingering over him.

"That will happen," Jopson replies. "Stress and the like. We all have odd dreams now and again." He stands and walks to the bed. Bending down, he looks Edward directly in the eyes as he says, "I wouldn't fret."

He kisses him firmly on the lips, lingers, and presses a second. Edward does not try to stop himself when the other man pulls away as he remarks, "I wish you didn't have to go."

"Alas, we would be discovered." Jopson smiles again, his face dimpling with a chuckle. He crosses to the door and looks back. "Until breakfast, sir." With a wink he is gone. 

As Edward pulls his nightshirt on Lucien stretches out on the bed. He curls around Edward when he slides back under his blankets, running a soothing hand over his shoulder and down his arm. They both press their faces into the pillow that still smells of Jopson's hair. In his ear, hot breath against him, Lucien sighs, "He's perfect."

Over the next month they come up with a myriad of different reasons and ways to be alone. Jopson presses lightly on the back of his chair at meals. Edward lets their fingers entwine for precious seconds as they pass in corridors. They share fevered kisses in the pantry, wrenching away from each other when footsteps sound just outside. They make love in Edward's bed far more frequently and louder than is perhaps wise, but he finds comfort in each stolen moment.

Lucien is insatiable. He desires Jopson in every moment of every day. It consumes Edward and it terrifies him. Lucien's wants have never been so tangible, so pervasive. He demands and pushes until Edward relents and they are taking dangerous risks. He cannot bring himself to care, not with Jopson warm and beautiful and _perfect_ in his arms. It is Lucien who first whispers "Thomas'' into Jopson's ear and the smile it receives is so radiant that Edward cannot call him anything else.

But as they grow closer, so does the ice. With Erebus lame and the pack before them, their fates seem sealed. Edward resigns himself to endless hours of sawing and picking and pounding at the immovable mass. He dreams still of some unnameable monster lurking above and below and around him, so when he collapses into a dreamless sleep, the exhaustion is a reprieve.

The night they are frozen in Edward has Thomas curled against his chest. Beneath the wool blanket the sweat is still drying on their skin, but Thomas is fast asleep. His steady breaths provide a soothing rhythm in counterpoint to the creaking ice. Edward has his face pressed to the top of his head. Lucien is running his fingers through the back of his hair. 

"He is everything," Lucien says. His grip is tight in Thomas's hair, possessive. "He is the whole world."

With a profound sense of certainty, it suddenly occurs to Edward that there is nothing he would not do for this man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lucien possesses Edward to corner and grope Jopson in the great cabin. Later, Lucien manipulates Edward into allowing him use his body to initiate sex with Jopson. While Jopson does consents to sex with Edward, it is unclear if he knows about Lucien.


	6. I Dreamed You Were a Drowned Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As his relationship with Thomas continues and the expedition grows ever more dangerous, Edward finds a particularly unnerving dream draws him closer to Lucien.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from the poem "Omens" by Cecilia Llompart
> 
> This is complete and I will be doing my best to update as regularly as possible. Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos give me life!
> 
> Detailed warnings in end notes.

Edward Little turns thirty-five in the long dark of the Arctic Winter. He grew up in a country house dedicated to horses, but no amount of traipsing through snow drifts after spooked mares could prepare him for this. Beneath the frozen expanse of sea there is no muddy fish pond or reedy lake. Beneath the ice, there is nothing but the frigid depths, dark and deep. There is no green, no color, save for what little dots of it they make themselves.

The only thing that truly heralds the coming of day is Mr. Gibson's quiet calls and gentle shakes that rouse Edward from unsatisfying sleep. Often he feels as though he does not sleep. He is told his body is coping with the abundance of idle time and the lack of sun. Many of the men complain of similar symptoms. 

There is nothing to worry about.

Edward is not so certain he believes any of this. He dreams almost constantly of buildings, alleyways, and forests he cannot know. He dreams he is atop a horse, speaking to men, and shaking one of their hands. When he wakes he can still feel the dry palm pressed to his and the heavy weight of rings on his fingers. Another night he finds himself hunched over his saddle and riding hard against a driving rain. In the morning his thighs ache and he cannot shake the overwhelming scent of wet leather.

Worse are the times the creature is present. He sees it in visions of battlefields. It stands, scaled and feathered, looming at the edge of his sight. When it steps up to him it wears the face of a man, pale as death and familiar. It hovers over him on his berth, holds him close, and kisses him. It grins, sharp toothed and vicious, out from the shadows. Once it performs such an act on Edward that he wakes hard and wanting. Lucien, chuckling darkly into his ear, grips him with both their hands and brings him to shaky completion beneath his bedclothes.

His headaches do not abate as the winter progresses. Twice his nose bleeds. The first time is little more than a slow trickle easily stemmed, the second is a nigh unstoppable deluge that has him stumbling to sickbay. They blame the cold and send him to bed where he stares at his ruined handkerchief. The crimson stains are startlingly dark in the lamplight, standing out against the blue of his uniform. He dirties another in an attempt to clean the blood from his face.

Thomas frowns at him when he appears late into the night with his tea tray. He scolds Edward softly as he wipes the remaining flecks of blood from his whiskers. When he is finished, he kisses Edward firmly on the lips and hands him the warm cup of tea.

Thomas is his only comfort, the only thing that can lull him into sound sleep. He often wakes to find himself cradled to the man's chest or curled around him. He does not always know how he comes to be in these positions and, once or twice, he wakes feeling sated and lethargic. Thomas is beside him, but he has no memory of making love, and assumes it's just the soothing effect of the steward.

Lucien remains close. He moves with Edward fluidly and flows through his body. The line between them blurs until there is scarcely a difference. His appetite for Thomas is unparalleled and Edward is overwhelmed by the urge to have him in every way. Lucien barely waits for doors to close or locks to catch. He takes Thomas roughly against the conjoining wall of Edward's berth. He bites and bruises and whispers filthy words while Edward and Thomas, both, do nothing but hold on.

Edward is mortified the next morning to hear Hodgson complain of odd creaking waking him in the night.

As the winter progresses the men spend more and more time below decks, where it is warmer, where it is safer. They are trapped out in the open, exposed to the harsh winds and cruel temperatures. The communal spaces of Terror are filled with music and laughter, but provide no privacy. With so many eyes always looking, Edward and Thomas have no way to meet unobserved. 

They resign themselves to quick glances over tables or across rooms, to the brushing of fingertips over passed glasses. Thomas meets him in the slop room and presses their foreheads together for the briefest of seconds before he must trek across a dense snow to Erebus. It is the best they can do for now, but Lucien's fury sits like thunder on Edward's brow. He is agitated by frustration. He is snappish with the men, disrespectful when the captain isn't looking, and once says something so rude to Irving that Edward must scramble to apologize.

Tensions are high among the crew by the time temperatures begin to rise. A slow progression, but one that heralds the coming of Spring. With it comes more light and more duties. The crew eagerly begins to make small preparations to sail again as plans for lead parties begin to form. 

The first truly warm day sees most of the men out on the ice for a friendly match or two. Edward has tasks throughout the ship and relishes the ease with which he can move about the corridors. He passes the captain's pantry and sees, just beyond the half closed door, the long line of Thomas's back stretched out as he reaches for some artifact on a high shelf.

It is Lucien who pushes the door open and stalks up behind him. It is Lucien who buries his face, inhaling deeply, in the back of Thomas's neck. But it is Edward who attempts to close the door and Edward who turns Thomas around to kiss his mouth open. They pay little mind to anything other than each other, taking some comfort in the ship being so empty. 

Thomas is laughing breathlessly against Edward's cheek as he buttons his trousers. Lucien is doing his best to ruin all their efforts to dress by refusing to remove his mouth from Thomas's throat. Edward has given up on smoothing down his own clothing when they hear a flustered cry of "Jopson" and the stomping of coming boots. They look at each other. 

The door of the pantry is the barest bit ajar. 

Fear thrums through Edward.

Thomas steps away first, runs a hand down his uniform, and quickly slips into the corridor. He slides the pantry door closed behind him. Edward is fixing his collar and breathing through his nerves as he hears, "Captain?"

"Ah, Jopson. Have you seen Lieutenant Little?" Crozier's voice rings loudly through the tiny room. There is nothing but this thin panel of wood separating them from ruinous suspicion, if not discovery. Lucien stands, as if poised for battle, at Edward's back.

"No, sir," Thomas replies evenly. "I've not seen him. Perhaps he's above decks with the others?"

The casual nudging in the opposite direction is a necessity of their situation, but the words sound so innocent in Thomas's voice. That a lie, mild though it may be, can be so softly spoken seems out of place. A peculiar sensation washes over Edward.

"If you see him-" Crozier begins as his footfalls move away.

"I shall let him know, sir."

For an agonizing minute there is no sound before the pantry door is slid open. Thomas is standing on the other side with an amused grin and a beam in his eye. Lucien relaxes at Edward's back.

"Captain's looking for you, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Jopson," Edward replies with as much formality as he can, should the captain still be within earshot. As they slip past each other, closer than they need to be in the corridor, Edward can see the shadow of a love bite on Thomas's neck. Lucien inhales sharply. He is near vibrating with lust and they both have to pull themselves away and up the ladder before any more incriminating marks are made.

An odd feeling settles around Edward throughout the day and into the night. Even as he sits to write his reports he cannot shake it. It is ridiculous that he should be so shaken by something so mundane. That Thomas can lie, that he does lie, should not be a shock. He _is_ a man after all.

That is the crux of it, of course. Edward knows Thomas is as prone to flaw and vice as anyone. He knows he is flesh and blood. That he could sicken. 

That he could die.

"No." Lucien is suddenly at Edward's side, pulling the pen from his fingers. There is a fire in his eyes, a determination. "That will not happen."

"All men die," Edward replies, voice barely above a whisper. Lucien grips his face firmly between two warm palms and hisses, "It will _not_ happen. We will not let it."

Edward turns his face into one of Lucien's hands, uses his own to press it closer, and nods.

The subject of Thomas' white lie is broached a few nights later in their first real moment of privacy. It is met with light laughter as Thomas works the buttons of his waistcoat open. He winds his arms around Edward's neck, smiling, and kisses him. The press of Thomas's body against his own is intoxicating. He cards his fingers through Edward's hair, licking the tip of his nose, before saying, "I lied for us."

Lucien curls a harsh hand at the back of Thomas's neck as their mouths slide together. He rests his chin on Edward's shoulder and breaths into his ear, "For _us_."

They send out the lead parties barely a few weeks later. Command is convinced they will be successful, certain they will conquer this frozen wasteland. Spirits are high and hopeful. And why shouldn't they be? They are combing every direction, doing a thorough search. They will find something. They must.

Hope drains out of the air like water from a sieve as each party returns with nothing. There are no leads, no breaks in the ice, and no signs of a thaw. There are no people or animals encountered. The last party returns harried and full of fear with an Inuit man and his daughter and without Lieutenant Gore. Dead, Edward learns later, mauled by some great bear. A bear, the men say, that followed them for miles. They are shaken and angry and haunted by what they saw. And, still, there is no pathway out of the ice, no escape.

The Inuit man dies in Erebus' sickbay. It feels like a black omen to Edward as gooseflesh runs down his neck. He stands on the deck of Terror and feels like there is something watching them, like there is something waiting just below the horizon for them to turn their backs. Whether it is some beastial bear or an army of natives, he cannot say.

Edward cannot deny the panic rising in him. Sir John insists God will guide them, words echoed by Irving and mutely agreed on by Crozier. But what God is there here in this frozen expanse? Edward has never known God to guide him, only Lucien. Lucien, finding humor in the fervent prayers of the men, is displeased with Edward's open displays of panic. He mocks or else makes no comment at all and let's Edward fumble through awkward explanations.

If they are being guided, it is to no good end. The Marines set up a hunting blind, bent on catching this bear. They think they are clever, men with guns tucked away in an icy recess. It provides them cover, but nowhere to run to when the bear catches them. It kills a handful of Marines. 

And Sir John. 

Nausea burns in the pit of Edward's stomach at the sight of the blood on the ice. It is carnage. The limbs and viscera strewn about is unlike anything he has ever seen. Of Sir John they find only his leg, the rest of him lost in a hole they dug themselves. As Fitzjames screams his loss to the Arctic sea, it seems to Edward that the expedition is over. It is not about finding a passage now. It is about survival, about living long enough to see England again.

The funeral they have for Sir John should have been Gore's. They stand in the cold snow keeping vigil over a coffin that contains nothing but one stockinged leg and it all seems so ridiculous. Edward's black mood does not leave him. Fitzjames's cries still echo in his ears. He takes too much whiskey after the dinner he could not eat and must be put to bed. It is Thomas who does it, with a soft smile and kiss to his temple.

He dreams of death, all consuming. Encompassing. He dreams of pain, sharp and new in his shoulder, dull in his abdomen. He smells wet stone, soot from a torch, and the whiff of gunpowder. A reservoir of water stands in a stone basin. He knows he is beneath something, some building. A church, perhaps. 

There is a man he does not know, but his blade is sharp when it pierces Edward's side. They grapple, tumble, and fall into the water. The fight is vicious. They pull at hair, tear at clothes, punch and bite. The water sloshes around them. Edward feels the bite of a blade in his belly, hears his own pained groan, and wonders what it means when he hears himself say, "My favorite part of a battle is always its end."

And then his vision is clouded as the water rushes up around him. There is blood on his hands. He can feel it seeping over his fingers. He gasps. Murky warmth rushes into his lungs. He tries to shake the hand on his shoulder, to yank at the fist in his hair, but is too weak to do it. His limbs feel numb and heavy. He opens his mouth to cry out, to make one more vain effort at air, but he is met with nothing but the sluggish pull of the water.

Suddenly on his knees, panting and gagging, Edward watches a man pull a corpse from the reservoir. Sopping wet and exhausted, the man lays his foe out on the lip of the pool. He is gentle, nearly kind, as he arranges the body in the semblance of sleep. One ringed hand is placed over the man's stomach as thick strands of hair are brushed away from his face. Edward knows this is a gesture of understanding that has come too late. The man steps back, cradling wounds of his own, and curls against a wall to keep silent vigil.

Edward looks into the face of Lucien Grimaud, pale and slack in death, and thinks, "What have you done?"

Time shifts in a fluid motion around him and all that remains are lengthened shadows and Lucien's still body. From behind him Edward hears the quiet shuffle of coming footsteps carefully muffled against the stone passage. A cloaked figure enters the room. It looks like a man, but Edward feels, somehow, it is not. He cannot see anything save two bright eyes beyond the deep hood. They glint in the dim light. Its shoulders tremble as it moves forward whispering "No...no…" in a deep wavering voice. With each shaking step it repeats the denial before falling to its knees before Lucien. It sobs, a wracking, near inhuman sound.

The figure clutches a limp hand, kisses the fingers, and presses the damp palm to its own cheek. It places one hand on Lucien's chest, long fingers stroking against wet fabric. It leans forward and kisses cold lips tenderly. With its head bent close it growls, "I will make this right."

Edward knows this voice. 

He has heard it nearly every day since they left Greenhithe. He knows the slender fingers he can see combing through tangled hair and the set of the broad shoulders. He takes a step back. There is no sound and, yet, the creature swings its head around and Edward is looking into the pale blue eyes of Thomas Jopson.

Waking is as simple as opening his eyes. The ship is silent around him. The hour must be late or else very early, too early to rise for the day. Edward resigns himself to wakefulness as a cold feeling settles in the pit of his stomach. His chest is tight and his throat raw. The scent of wet stone seems to cling to the air and a dull ache lingers over phantom wounds. He shivers as he pushes himself up.

Lucien hovers just out of sight and Edward _knows_ what it is he dreams. They are memories of the life Lucien refuses to discuss. Edward knows better than to ask, has learned to let the topic go, but he has been seeing glimpses of that past life for the better part of a year now. They are small indications of the man Lucien had been, of the way he had moved through the world. It was not so different from how he moves through it now as an apparition: confident, calculated, and cruel. But it seems, like all men, he'd had things to lose. A lover, even.

That Edward's mind supplies Thomas's face for Lucien's long ago lover is surely a cruelty to them both.

Edward turns to catch Lucien's eye where he is staring from a shadowed corner. For the briefest second he thinks he sees the same luminous eyes from his dream over Lucien's shoulder. It seems as though tendrils of darkness wrap around his throat, caressing his skin, but as he steps toward the bed they fall away and Edward dismisses it as a trick of light. Lucien stands at his side, gazing coldly, with his head tilted.

Edward looks back, unflinching, and dares to ask what he has been thinking, "Why?"

"Why do you dream?" Lucien replies, voice soft.

"No," Edward says because he knows _why_ he dreams. There is scarcely a difference between them. As Edward's need to command rises he calls on Lucien almost daily to guide him and, as Lucien aches for Thomas, he relies on Edward to sate his urges. Their need for each other is mutual and undeniable. That they share memories, even involuntarily, makes perfect sense. So, he knows why he dreams. 

"Why did-" Edward stops and tries again, "Why did he-" The words are a struggle to say, difficult to admit.

"Why did he kill me?" Lucien smirks and then he is moving. He straddles Edward's lap and seats himself on his thighs. The movements are lazy, practiced. Two hands slide up Edward's chest to rest, impossibly hot, against his shoulders. They push him back to his pillow. Above him Lucien smiles. "You want to know why he killed me?"

"He drowned you," Edward whispers in reply. He doesn't know what he means to accomplish, if anything, by saying these things. Lucien snorts.

"He thought he was better than me." Hands slip down Edward's torso and come to tap lightly at his belly. Fingers grip the thin fabric of his nightshirt as they slowly begin to tug at it. Lucien shifts in his lap, bringing their hips closer together. "He thought I deserved it."

"He stabbed you." Before he can stop himself, Edward reaches out and presses a hand to the very spot he knows the wound sat. He means it to be comforting, but Lucien eyes are alight with fire. He leans forward, hands on either side of Edward's head, and their hips are flush now. The pressure of him can be felt through the bedclothes and Edward gasps when Lucien rolls against him. 

"It would not have killed me," he says against Edward's ear. "No wound would have." Lucien licks his ear and the sensation of cooling saliva is jarring. It has never happened like this before. It has never felt so much like being with any other man. Edward takes a shaky breath before he says, "He took you from someone."

Warm air puffs against his skin as Lucien sighs, "Yes." Kisses are peppered down the length of Edward's neck. "But it doesn't matter now. We have our Tommy." The bedclothes are pulled away, clothing pushed aside. Lucien's hand is firm as he grips Edward's aching prick. The strokes are slow and deliberate and they leave Edward biting his lip.

"Our Tommy," Lucien breathes against the corner of his mouth. "So clever. So beautiful. So perfect." He crashes their mouth together, licks into Edward's own as he bites and nips the lips under him. Edward's hands wind around Lucien's shoulders to feel the muscles moving beneath them. 

Lucien pulls back to stare directly into Edward's eyes. His hand moves faster between them and Edward spreads his thighs as far as he can, thrusting into the tight fist around his length. He moans, broken and half caught in his throat, as he spends between them. Lucien grins and kisses Edward again.

The scent of Lucien does not leave him all the next day. Around every corner he can smell water and leather and blood. Perhaps he should be alarmed by this, but he finds he cannot care when he feels so satisfied. His better mood does not go unnoticed. The captain remarks on it at dinner and, while he dismisses the inquiries, Thomas breaks all protocol and propriety by giving Edward a beaming smile. A great surge of possessiveness sweeps through him and in his ear he hears Lucien whisper, "All ours."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter features descriptions of gore typical to The Terror and descriptions of Lucien's canonical death by drowning from The Musketeers. Lucien also manipulates Edward into a sexual situation reminiscent of their first encounter in the first chapter.


	7. The Claws and Teeth of Some Unspeakable Beast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Edward and Thomas are caught in a compromising position, Lucien takes matters into his own hands. Edward is forced to think about the future and makes a confession that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is from H.P. Lovecraft's "The Hound."
> 
> This chapter ran a bit long and I am sorry about that. Once the boys started they didn't want to stop.
> 
> If you're thinking, "Golly, is this chapter a lot like the last?" You would be correct! They are very much meant to be similar. 
> 
> Content warnings on end notes.

As the months drag on, the men begin to grow exhausted and weary. They fear the ice, even in the scant few daylight hours, and shrink from their watch duties. If there is some demon bear waiting to devour them, it does not make itself known, but the idea of it keeps the men cowed. A pensive mood hangs over mealtimes, an oppressive sense of apprehension sits in the air. What little joy the men can find is encouraged by the ship's doctors and command alike.

The captain retreats into himself and even further into the whiskey bottle. He takes Thomas with him and nearly doubles his tasks by requiring a nursemaid. Lucien is resentful of Crozier's need for the steward and Edward cannot find fault in this. He does not wish to keep Thomas to himself alone nor does he wish to hoard him away and hide him from the world, but he cannot deny some small part of him would be glad for it.

What they want, Edward and Lucien both, is to pamper Thomas in every way. He deserves the world and he deserves a man who can give it to him. When they get back to England, Edward will treat him to every finery and decadence that his heart desires. He will want for nothing. He will need nothing.

"Except us," Lucien whispers into Edward's ear. "Only us."

Thomas asks for nothing that Edward cannot give him and all Edward can truly give is himself. So, when Thomas knocks at Edward's berth late in the night or quietly makes some inquiry about assistance, Edward cannot deny him. They should both know better. Their every meeting is ill advised. A risk. But, when they are not together, he is consumed by a deep aching need. This is perhaps why Edward finds himself, once again, being led to the orlop under some ridiculous pretense or another.

Thomas's smile is coy and his hands are firm against Edward's waistcoat. They kiss lazily. The soft wet glide of Thomas's mouth against his own is intoxicating. Lust sits heavy in his gut. Whether it is his or Lucien's or a heady combination of both he can no longer tell. Lucien is always pleased to have Thomas so close and has one hand held tightly in his hair and the other gripping at his backside. Thomas huffs a laugh against Edward's lips, while working his own hands between them.

"Do we have time for this?" Edward breaths as the buttons of his trousers are slowly undone.

Thomas gives him a devilish look before saying, "The captain is...indisposed and you're not needed on deck for another hour." Finished with the buttons, he abruptly shoves his hand into Edward's trousers and grasps his cock. It only takes a few firm pulls before Edward is gasping into Thomas's mouth as he sighs.

"Last night wasn't enough?" Edward laughs.

"Hm," Thomas hums. The blunt pressure of his nails against the tender flesh of Edward's prick makes him groan. Thomas turns his face into Edward's neck and licks at the skin as he says, "I would have you each night and again every morning." He presses close. "And, as a treat, just after lunch." Thomas rocks his hips against Edward's thigh, his arousal evident beneath his trousers, as he hisses, "And, still, that would not be enough."

Lucien uses the hand in his hair to wrench Thomas's head back. "Greedy," he growls before crashing their mouths together. When Thomas pulls away he is panting and his lips are swollen. He takes his hand out of Edward's trousers and sinks to his knees. Edward groans both at the loss of sensation and the feel of a body sliding against his own.

On his knees, looking up through dark lashes, and biting his bottom lip Thomas runs his hands up Edward's thighs before resting them on his hips. He pushes the shirt out of the way, baring the lightly haired skin of Edward's belly. Thomas places a series of chaste kisses below his navel and Edward inhales sharply through his nose.

"Shall I show you, sir," Thomas remarks, "just how I would wake you each morning, if I had a say?"

Lucien slides one hand down Thomas's face to cup his cheek as Edward says, "Please do."

With a smirk Thomas leans forward and takes the tip of Edward's cock into his mouth. The wet heat, the pressure, is perfect. The slick sensation of a tongue lapping at the head has him grunting and spreading his legs wider. As Thomas slides his mouth further down the shaft in an unhurried and measured manner, Edward hopes he will have time to return the favor. It is an act he has always enjoyed, a form of giving pleasure he delights in. Lucien seems to only prefer to be on the receiving end, but does not admonition Edward for his enjoyment of it.

The thought of how beautiful Thomas will look panting and flushed with pleasure has Edward biting his lip to hold back a groan and Lucien giving a half aborted thrust forward. Edward wishes they had an unlimited number of hours to devote to this.

The sound of a heavy thud rings out through the quiet of the orlop. Edward freezes, fear running down his spine. Thomas pulls away as quietly as he can and scrubs the back of his hand over his mouth. He stands in one fluid motion before setting his hair to right and attempting to smooth the wrinkles from his clothing. The sound of someone scrambling to pick something up can be heard even over the thunderous heartbeat in Edward's ears. He stands dumbly, rooted to the spot, as Lucien yanks his trousers closed and begins to rebutton them.

Once he deems himself presentable, Thomas locks eyes with him and nods. Edward isn't sure if it is he or Lucien who gives the response but, before he can dwell on it, Thomas wheels around a corner of stacked crates. He feels foolish for thinking they were covered.

Fiddling with the last of his buttons, Edward hears, "Ah, Mr. Strong. Can I help you with that?" Thomas's voice is careful, but sure. There is no fear in it, no apprehension, only the faint lilt of amusement.

Lucien pats Edward's hip and he finds his clothing fixed and smoothed over. He stares down at himself wondering if there is something they missed, something that will give them away. He prays the orlop is too dark to decipher any physical evidence. With a rough shove, he is torn out of his reverie when Lucien growls, "Go!" Edward stumbles for a moment, then clenches his fists and rounds the corner.

William Strong is standing with a tangled mass of rope clutched to his chest. He is gazing wide eyed at Thomas, like he's never seen him before. The abject terror on the boy's face is undeniable. It is as though he has found himself face to face with the Devil, or some _other_ monstrous thing. He trembles where he stands, unblinking, as his grip tightens on the rope.

Edward licks his dry lips and says with as much strength as he can, "Do you need help with the rope, Mr. Strong?" Strong's eyes snap to him and fix on a point just over his shoulder. The fear is as plain as day, even in the heavy shadows. It is unlike any expression Edward has ever seen on the seaman's face before. As a single tear wells in one of his eyes, Strong makes no sound or move to reply. Lucien tsks impatiently in Edward's ear.

It is, perhaps, unfair to be harsh to the young man when he is so disturbed by something. They all wrestle with fear now, fear of the future or the unknown, but the longer this confrontation takes the more suspicion it will garner. Clenching his fists tighter to muster up the courage, Edward inhales deeply before barking sternly,"You were asked a question!"

Strong's gaze finally lands on Edward and the boy swallows. His eyes are as large as saucers as he begins to ramble,"No, sir. I- It's just- Mr. Diggle sent me. I'm sorry- I'm sorry, sir." His eyes flicker between lieutenant and steward and he gulps audibly. The silence that hangs in the air between them is thick and tense. No one moves.

After a moment Thomas inclines his head and takes a step forward. At the sound of his bootheel connecting with the wood of the deck, Strong startles. He gasps and takes several hasty steps backwards. Thomas stops halfway through a second step and remarks softly, "Mr. Diggle will be wanting that rope."

"Yes. I- Yes," Strong mumbles before turning on his heel and all but running to the ladder. He does not look back as he climbs swiftly and carelessly, almost tripping on the rope trailing behind him.

Once the boy is gone, Edward breathes a sigh of relief before dread surges through his chest. "Thomas, if he saw us-"

"He did not." Thomas turns to face him, eyes nearly glowing in the dim light. The vague touch of amusement still clings to his lips.

"You cannot _know_ that," Edward hisses back. He looks down at his boots. He can feel Lucien's eyes on him like the pressure of a hand, the way they judge, and the way they seem say _don't fail me now_. "If he goes to the captain-"

"He will _not_." Thomas's voice is firm, but gentle. He walks toward Edward and takes his face in his hands. "Ned, it is far more likely he heard something than he saw it." He runs his dry fingers through Edward's whiskers, but Edward will not look at him. "Strong is not a stupid boy. He knows he cannot go to the captain on that alone. And, even if he does, it will be our word against his." Soft palms cradle his jaw and tilt his head up, forcing eye contact. "The captain will not believe it."

Edward sighs, a heavy release of tension, as he looks into his lover's face. Thomas kisses him and winds his arms around Edward's neck. Spurred on by the heat of Thomas's body, Edward can only deepen the kiss. When they break apart they are both panting.

"All Mr. Strong has done is waste our time," Thomas huffs against his lips.

With a fond smile Edward replies, "No afternoon treat today?"

Thomas laughs and presses another kiss to Edward's lips before pulling back. "You'll just have to have me for your pudding."

"For that, I think I can wait," Edward says as Thomas steps away from him with a wink.

As they watch Thomas climb the ladder, Lucien presses into Edward's back. His breath is warm and wet on the nape of his neck as it gently ruffles the hair there. "I don't want to wait," Lucien whispers.

"We don't have a choice." He doesn't turn his head to look, keeps his eyes trained on Thomas's boots as they disappear to the deck above them. Edward breathes and feels Licien shift behind him. He rubs his cheek against Edward's ear and strokes light fingers up and down his arms. The touch is comforting and Edward leans into it. 

"We will take him away from here," Lucien continues. "To a place that is ours. Where we can have him whenever we want."

Edward turns around in Lucien's grasp to look at him properly. Desire is naked in his expression and determination sits as a cold darkness beneath it. "Yes," he says to the half shadowed face and watches as a smirk spreads across it.

That it was Strong who discovered them is a strange quirk of fate, for it is also Strong's birthday the ship is celebrating. The men are buzzing with anticipation and Edward notices, as he ascends the ladder, there is already a good number gathered around Mr. Diggle's stove. He supposes they were lucky it was not a group who discovered them.

William Strong is a good lad and a capable sailor. The ship's boys look to him not just for guidance, but for comfort, a protective hand on a ship full of men decades older. His disposition is pleasant, but firm and eager to comply. Watching him now, as he speaks to Marine Sergeant Tozer, there is a noticeable stiffness to his stance. He does not meet Edward's eyes when Tozer calls out in greeting. And, when Thomas glides past with a tray not long after, Strong shifts away.

He knows when he is being avoided and watches as a careful distance is measured between them. Wherever this unshakeable fear that has come from, it must be marked and observed. Such a thing could lead the boy to make dangerous choices that could endanger all the lives on the ships. 

For now, though, he must relieve the watch.

The air above decks is sharp on Edward's face. They are in November again and live in a near perpetual state of night. The tarps are up and the lanterns lit, offering some shelter from the swirling Arctic squalls surrounding them. It is, indeed, a good day for the majority of the crew to be below decks.

Stepping out from under the protective almost warmth of the tarps, Edward checks in on the few men who have forsaken festivity for duty. They will have extra helpings of grog. It's a small consolation, but there's precious little to offer out here.

Edward takes a moment to gaze out into the expanse of dense gray-white wind and snow. There is scarcely anything to see, but the vague shapes of the ice around them. Except, Edward cannot shake the feeling that something is watching him. Some… _entity_ that shifts just out of sight. It sends ripples in its wake and leaves Edward shivering.

He knows it is the creature that has been hunting them in the same way he knows it is _not_ the creature that has haunted his dreams. Some nagging sensation at the base of his skull tells him it is something different, something unknown. He turns away to hide the growing panic on his face and flees back beneath the tarp. 

He breathes.

"It cannot hurt you," Lucien says from behind him. There is no malice or disappointment in his voice, only certainty. "It cannot hurt you because it cannot hurt me." Edward turns to look at him, aware of the crewmen lingering around them, and searches Lucien's face. The sure expression gives rise to a swell of gratitude and Edward _believes_ him.

The festivities are dispersing when Edward finally descends below to warm up. He watches Strong rush up the ladder laughing at some ship's boy. He seems so young to Edward as he crosses to the stove. It is here that Irving finds him. John has a myriad of things to discuss. They are not inconsequential things and the matter of the spoiled cans _is_ pressing. Edward, himself, has begun to wonder when the Terrors will need to move to Erebus, but he cannot focus when Thomas keeps darting in and out of his line of sight.

"It's nearly four…" Irving begins, barely above a whisper. "Do you think we'll have that command meeting?"

They've not heard the captain call it off, but that means very little when they've not heard from the captain at all. He may be pouring over maps just as much as he may be asleep on them.

"Truthfully, John," Edward begins, licking his lips as he leans closer. "I couldn't say. Suppose I should go and ask."

"Perhaps…perhaps you shouldn't _interrupt_ ," Irving replies with a beseeching look and they both flinch. The last time Edward "interrupted" it ended with a cut crystal glass being flung at his head. Edward sighs.

"I could ask him, sir." Thomas is suddenly at their elbows looking demure and sweet. "He may not mind if it's me." He looks Edward directly in the eye and does not break the gaze until Edward nods and murmurs a soft, " Thank you, Mr. Jopson."

Irving seems content with the compromise, though a sour expression comes across his face. Edward has a suspicion that it has to do with the sudden appearance of Mr. Hickey, who has settled himself firmly against a bulkhead. He has often wondered what occurrence between them could have left Irving so shaken and Hickey so smug.

That Irving is like him in some way Edward knows. He also knows that Irving is terrified of this part of himself and, thus, it is difficult to believe that he caved to some seduction or acquiesced to some advance. That it was with Hickey is an equally difficult thing to believe.

It is not that Hickey isn't handsome. He is, with his fair features, more in line with Edward's usual bedfellows than even Thomas, but there is something of the rat about the man. He is cheeky and unapologetically lazy. He is something to be mistrusted, or avoided. It takes the beauty out of him, or so Lucien had said when Edward had first picked up on their shared habits.

A blood curdling scream rings out. Edward stands frozen for a moment, feeling so utterly alone, and then sound erupts around him. Men shout and cry. A rifle reports. Boots hammer the deck above him and around him. Men tear up the ladder as others nearly fall down it. Even as he hears a voice call out for an officer fear washes over him, but he must respond. He _must_ go.

Edward takes one heavy step forward and beneath his boot ice crunches. It startles him. He does not recall tracking ice below. He looks down and finds only wood under his feet. Confused, he glances around and is horrified to find he is not on the ship at all. He stands exposed to the elements, out in the swirling Arctic snow. Silence rings in his ears. He can feel the wind billowing around him, but cannot feel the biting cold.

He can see weak light emanating from Terror and spies, just outside of his vision, a white mass moving on the ice. Edward cannot turn to look, is rooted to the spot, but knows it is their great beast. It sniffs the air and lumbers forward. 

There is nowhere to run.

He watches his hand move of its own accord, a hand with gunpowder stained fingers and a ring for each knuckle. _Edward is not in control._ The fingers crook, beckon, and he looks up to find the figure of a man walking toward him. He does not need to see the face. He can tell by the set of the shoulders that it is William Strong. He'll not last long on the ice without proper slops and with this creature slinking ever closer.

But that really _is_ the point, isn't it?

The realization slams into Edward, bringing with it a wave of grief. Strong is so young. He had a whole life ahead of him. Sorrow stings in his chest. There is nothing he can do.

When Strong stops before him he seems to blink sleep from his eyes, like he's waking from a dream. Registering where he is Strong begins to panic, a shiver running through him. Lucien reaches out and places a hand on the boy's shoulder and says, "Calmly now." Strong's brow creases as he tries to decipher the face before him. His eyes go wide with terror and he wrenches himself away. The cold is getting to him, his dexterity dampened, and Lucien's hand is firm as he wheels him back in. Lucien's other hand is also firm, firm around the hilt of the knife he drives deep into Strong's belly.

Edward is suddenly looking at Thomas, who is standing at the base of the ladder putting on his Welsh wig. Thomas looks at him beseechingly and gestures to the ladder before he is up it himself, likely after the captain. A sensation of wetness lingers on his fingers. He inspects his hands, expecting to find the knife or the blood, but there is nothing. He wipes them on his coat in a vain attempt to feel clean and, with a great breath, Edward musters his courage and forces his legs to work as he mounts the ladder.

He wishes he had not. The deck is no longer in chaos, but the men are white faced with shock. The tarp has been torn apart and a large hole gapes to the black of the sky. The chill from it is like icy fingers curling around his throat. Tozer is kneeling over a fellow marine, his face concerned and boyish. The marine has had his skull opened. A chunk of hair and skin and bone has been ripped away to reveal the soft grey tissue beneath. The wound is horrific, unlike anything Edward has ever seen. He suppresses the urge to retch. 

"It's come onto the ship, Edward," Crozier hisses at him. Edward breathes through the panic that floods him and the guilt that quickly follows. He'd known the thing was out there, could sense it, and did nothing.

"It's got Strong!" a ship's boy cries as he rushes to the captain. 

Of course it does. How could it not? As the boy recounts hearing Strong calling out for help, Edward looks over to the hole in the canvas. Lucien is leaning against the gunwale, arms crossed, and smiling.

The next few hours pass in a whirlwind. Edward is scarcely aware of the captain giving orders or handing out rifles to a search party. In a daze he hears himself ordered to stay behind in case anything else should happen. He stands a silent watch over a nervous crew. They wait for the creature or cries from the ice and get neither. Lucien circles him slowly and lets him struggle through his nausea. A cold smirk plays at the corner of his mouth.

The sun makes its last feeble rise of the year as an eerie quiet settles over Terror. There is no trace of Strong and a bloodied lantern is the only remaining artifact of an unfortunate ship's boy. While Crozier and Fitzjames are sequestered away discussing and arguing, Edward is granted a few hours rest.

He sits in the dark of his berth with his head in his hands. There will be no sleep, not now. Perhaps he shall never sleep again. A warm hand is petting his hair softly. Edward desperately wants to believe Lucien's gentle touch, but there are horrors hidden beneath it. Bitterness like bile rises in the back of his throat. He opens his mouth, gags, and swallows before daring to speak his thoughts. "You killed him."

"I did," Lucien says as he kneels before Edward. "I did it for Tommy." One firm thumb wipes away a tear Edward had not known was there. Lucien grips his face with solid hands as he whispers, "For _us_." He brings their faces close before licking a second tear away. Edward gasps at the heat of it and the rough drag of Lucien's beard against his lips. When he pulls away Edward nods his understanding. 

Death is a necessity of their situation. 

Lucien smiles and there is no warmth in the black pools of his eyes.

A body appears on the deck, nearly frozen through and sawed in half. Each half belongs to a different man and William Strong's horrified face stares endlessly up at them. Edward does retch this time.

Whatever left this macabre gift means for it to be mocking. That is plain enough even as they comb the ice with as much light and guns as they dare. Some try to rationalize their experiences by putting the blame on the Inuit woman they dealt with some months ago. Edward knows this cannot be true, from instinct and from the way Lucien scoffs at the accusation.

Then Hickey kidnaps the woman.

The captain is furious. He and Fitzjames listen to Hickey spin a fanciful tale. He has always been _just_ obedient enough to get by. Now, he flat ignores each direction, no matter how much force Edward puts behind them. Where other men flinch at his rough tone, Hickey spares him only a vague glance.

Lucien circles the room, watchful and ready. "Like knows like," he says. That Hickey can see behind the careful facade he's created and has deemed him unworthy is infuriating.

The men are lashed and it is brutal to watch. Hickey takes his punishment as a boy and it is more of the man than Edward has ever wanted to see when his underthings are tugged down to his ankles. It is more blood than he has ever wanted to see spread across a man's backside. Lucien seems impressed by the way Hickey refuses to cry. Edward knows the men will be, too, despite the captain's attempts to dissuade them with a long list of charges.

It seems hours before he is alone again. Anxiety eats at him. Edward cannot allow himself and Thomas to be caught again. While the severity of Hickey's punishment was, in part, due to his own inability to keep his own mouth shut, the charge of dirtiness strongly implies the captain knows of his proclivities. Proclivities Edward shares and engages in regularly with Thomas. They can't afford carelessness now. He will not see Thomas hurt, disrated, or drummed out because of him.

It is late, far later than usual, when the gentle knock comes to Edward's door. He is still mostly dressed with the lamp burning low. He lets Thomas in, lets him slide past and press close. But, when he tries to pull him in for a kiss, Edward pulls away.

"Ned," comes the soft reply. He tries again and reaches out, his eyes imploring. Edward catches the hands in his and grips them tightly.

"We cannot continue this," he says through the lump on his throat. "We cannot risk being found out."

Thomas blinks at him. "We will not be," he says simply, like willing it will make it so.

"We already _have_ been," Edward hisses and gets a light huff of a laugh in reply.

"Fate saw fit to sort that out." Something dark passes across Thomas's face, something Edward has never seen before, but he cannot fault his lover for taking some guilty relief in Strong's death. He feels much the same.

"If the captain ever-" Edward begins but is cut off when Thomas pulls his hands away and says, resolutely, "We will _not_ be discovered."

The certainty of the statement is absurd and Edward shakes his head. "Don't be naive, Tommy-"

"Don't!" The word comes sharp, pointed, and too loud. "Don't call me that." Thomas's mouth is pressed in a hard line, his eyes full of anger. Edward gazes at him dumbfounded. Lucien calls him Tommy so often that Edward has forgotten he'd never spoken it aloud before.

"I'm sorry," Edward whispers, feeling wretched.

Thomas visibly deflates, all his anger draining away as he looks to the floor. "It's just," he begins with a sigh, eyes searching. "It's...what my mother used to call me."

"I should have asked," Edward says because he _should_ know more than the basic sad tale of loss. He should know everything about this man.

Thomas places a palm against Edward's cheek, cradling his face. "I should've said." 

Edward takes the hand in his and kisses the calloused fingertips. "If we _are_ ever discovered, you must say I forced you."

Whatever he is expecting, it is not for Thomas to laugh. "Ned, the captain will not believe it."

"He must. I will confess to it. It will be the only truth that matters."

Thomas stares at him for a moment, brows creasing, before he says, "It will be the lie that gets you hanged."

"I would lie one thousand times," Edward begins, kissing the fingers again. "I would hang one thousand more, if it would spare you even the smallest hurt."

He watches Thomas's pupils dilate in the swirling deep blue of his eyes. They are entrancing. He presses against Edward, holding their joined hands between their chests. He leans forward, nearly tapping their foreheads together.

"Would you die for me, Ned?" It's barely above a whisper and Edward can feel breath against his lips. He swallows.

"Yes." 

"Why?" Thomas breathes. Their eyes are locked, unblinking, and Edward can feel the welling of tears as he inhales deeply. "Because I love you."

The wide grin that spreads across Thomas's face would look mad on any other man. He pulls his hands away and runs them through Edward's hair before gripping it firmly and using it to pull him into a deep and unrelenting kiss. When he pulls away, Edward is dazed.

"You love me and you would die for me and you are _mine_ ," Thomas growls before diving back in.

Thomas is near ravenous as he removes every stitch of clothing on Edward's body and lays him out on the bed. Edward grunts when Thomas bites his collarbone as he straddles him. Thomas is impatient, near desperate. He goes through the preparations too quickly and with naught but spit to ease the way. He deems himself ready too soon and grimaces as he sinks down on Edward's cock. Edward, for his part, hisses in sympathy.

When Thomas is fully seated, he stills for a moment and just breathes. Edward pets his thighs in slow circles and tells him to take his time. Thomas rocks his hips impatiently and growls, "I want to feel you." Edward gasps when he moves again.

His hands tighten on Thomas's thighs involuntarily, but when he slides them up they are plucked from his hips. Thomas places his hands into the bedding with a stern look and Edward understands. He watches Thomas rise and fall above him, listens to him moan and pant, and clenches his fists in the blankets beneath them.

It is not until Lucien appears over Thomas's shoulder that Edward realizes the man has been surprisingly _absent_. Edward watches as Lucien's hands slide around Thomas's waist and up his chest. They caress the skin and card through the hair they find there. Lucien kisses and bites and licks at Thomas's neck as he rides Edward.

They are both watching him, Edward realizes. Thomas is gazing down at him, biting his lip as he begins stroking himself. His eyes are glowing and bright. Lucien gazes over Thomas's shoulder, kissing and sucking at the soft flesh, eyes black as pitch. Edward feels suddenly dizzy and he closes his own eyes against it. A wave of disorientation hits him and he is only just aware of his crisis washing over him. Clenching his eyes shut tighter as he pants, he can feel Thomas finish above him.

When the sensation passes Edward is conscious of Thomas laying against his chest, his head tucked into the crook of his neck. Lucien is lounging in the desk chair, sated and lazy, watching. Thomas nuzzles his ear and Edward slings a possessive arm around him.

He hears a quiet sigh of, "Mine" and it sounds so very much like the scaled and feathered monster of his nightmares. He shivers. Thomas pulls the blankets up around them and laughs into his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief description of oral sex. Lucien "murders" someone while Edward is conscious of it. There are also references to period typical homophobia. Thomas, Edward, and Lucien engage in an odd sexual act, so heed that dubious consent warning, folks.


	8. And Therefore the Ocean Told Me Its Secrets No More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Carnivale, with the walkout looming over him, Edward must start thinking about what lies ahead and his place in everything. As the crew grows more frustrated, Edward is hounded by increasingly disturbing dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is from H.P. Lovecraft's "The White Ship."
> 
> We're in the home stretch, my friends. Please pardon the stuff I made up.
> 
> If anyone was wondering, "Beckoning" by Adam Hurst is the theme song for this fic.
> 
> Content warnings in the end notes.

Edward is thirty-six and dreaming about the sun. He has been so deprived of it in these months, years, that it makes the coarse linen sheets beneath him feel luxurious. He should balk at the way they scratch his skin, but finds they are warm and comfortable. Stretching out, letting his toes touch the edge of the mattress, he turns his face to the source of light. He can feel the heat on his skin and see the brilliance beyond his closed eyes.

He does not wish to open them. He does not wish to wake in his cold damp berth on Terror alone and shivering. Yet, he cannot stop his eyes from fluttering open. It is not the dark wood of his berth or the ink stained writing desk that greets him, but a small tavern room. It is cramped, with only a bed and small table, and satisfyingly _familiar_.

Sunlight streams in through the open window bringing with it a cool breeze and the scent of a waking city. Sounds filter through of people talking and shouting, of bells ringing distantly, and the gentle clatter of hooves on stone. It is the sound of _Paris_ he knows suddenly and resolutely, as though the information has always existed inside his mind.

He expects to find Lucien glaring and cruel as he looks about the room. Instead he finds _Thomas_ leaning against the windowsill in a long white shirt that covers only the tops of his thighs. He is gazing out over the city and lazily viewing the people below him. In the golden light his skin is near glowing and his hair is an iridescent raven's black. He is a vision.

Edward reaches out a hand, ready to touch, and realizes with a start that it is not his hand. Where Edward's hands are stained with ink or blistered from cold, Lucien's are marked by gunpowder and a heavy adornment of rings. Edward observes them glittering in the light, gemstones catching and refracting it. 

A _memory_. 

He watches Lucien slide two of his fingers down the soft flesh of Thomas's bare thigh. Thomas turns away from the window with a huff and an amused smirk. Edward feels strange and out of place, like he's intruding, as Lucien sits up and reaches for Thomas in earnest. The man climbs into the bed and plants himself firmly on Lucien's lap. The shirt does very little to hide anything and, with a devilish smirk, Thomas kisses him with such passion that Edward reels. It is all teeth and tongue, a biting breathless thing.

Pulling back after a moment, Thomas stares into Lucien's eyes, his own are an answering and unnerving blue. "Would you give me the world, Lucien?" he asks.

"You _are_ the world," comes the reply before any thought is put into it. 

Thomas smirks and his eyes darken as his face seems to shift into something far more sinister. He looks nearly inhuman as he asks, "Would you give me anything I wanted?" 

"Anything," Lucien breathes, petting up Thomas's thighs to wrap his arms around his middle. Pulling him close, Lucien buries his face in Thomas's neck and mouths at the bare throat. He bites and caresses the flesh he finds there. Thomas grips Lucien's hair tightly and Edward can feel sharp nails biting into his scalp. 

"I want to burn it all down," comes a whispered growl.

Edward wrenches himself away and tips backwards into the waiting abyss.

He sits bolt upright in his berth. It is as it always is, cold and damp, and he attempts to calm his breathing with deep inhales through his nose. The smell of burning canvas and wood still linger in his nostrils. It catches at the back of his throat and he gags at the acrid taste it leaves in his mouth.

Carnivale was only a few weeks ago and the wound of it is still fresh. So much life lost in a single moment. The scent of it lingers for all of the men. It has clung to their clothes and their hair relentlessly. He does not believe any of them will ever truly forget the terrible heat of that great fire.

Edward shivers. Perhaps this is why he dreams of such things. It is a common occurrence for his mind to supply Thomas's face as Lucien's lost lover. It is impossible to fathom Lucien could care for any other man. This is what he reminds himself as he sits in agitation. The characters of his dreams have never been like this before. Thomas has never looked so content or so sinister and he has never called Lucien by name. They're interactions are always limited and never _intimate_.

And, of course, the room. The room was so _familiar_ , but not in the uncanny way that Lucien's lingering knowledge fills his brain. It is as though Edward has been there himself, like _he_ knows the place. It couldn't be the same little room in that Paris brothel from seventeen years ago.

Could it?

No.

What absurdity. It would be unlikely such a building would still be standing. His mind is trying to make sense of too many things at once and his dreams are reflecting that. That's it. It must be.

The events of Carnivale have unsettled Edward. Lucien has not delighted in the carnage, but he has not sympathized, not with the men who died nor the ones who survived nor with Edward himself. He had scoffed when Edward retched at the stench of charred flesh, but he had not mocked. Edward had been grateful.

There has been no time with Thomas and, perhaps, _that_ is why he dreams. It has been weeks since they were last alone and that had been following Edward's confession. He had been unnerved by the whole ordeal and, thinking to decipher what he had seen, had agonized over making some mention of it. But, from his position by the bed, Lucien had mocked, "Aren't you afraid he'll like me better?"

It was enough to quell him into silence.

How could Thomas _not_ like Lucien better? How could anyone not prefer him? Lucien is capable and clever. He is a leader. He bears all of the strength and ambition that a man should. He is everything Edward is not and more. Anyone would prefer him. They _should_ prefer him.

Besides, it is unlikely Thomas can even see Lucien and bringing him up _now_ would only cause the man to worry. And worry he does not need. The captain's _illness_ had him sequestered nearly day and night for a month and Edward could only watch as Thomas ran himself ragged. He ached to provide him some comfort, to offer some rest, but their duties kept them apart.

Then, of course, Carnivale had refused them any solace.

And, now, preparations to walk out keep them all so busy there is scarcely time to eat.

Edward's dark mood only blackens further at the thought of walking out. He is to lead the first sledge party tomorrow, a date that has loomed over him and taunted him. Only one third of the men will go with him. They will set up a camp and wait for the rest of the command and crew. These preparations are key to the survival of all of them, but Edward feels like bait.

Thomas slips into his berth that night without knocking. He stands in the low lamp light pale and wide eyed and trembling. Lucien hovers close and silent. He has been distant in the last few days, offering little advice or input. If Edward didn't know better, he'd say the man has been taken by some melancholy. Thomas curls up with him on the tiny berth and they do nothing but cling. The scent of soot is still in his hair as Edward presses his nose to it. Thomas buries his face in his shoulder and pulls him as close as he can. There is warmth, blessed warmth, to be found in the cradle of his lover's body. 

Running his broad hands slowly up and down Edward's back, Thomas whispers, barely audible, "I love you." 

It is a moment of absolution for Edward. Thomas loves him. This is all he has ever needed and any misgivings he has about tomorrow leave him. He could cry for the joy of it and he pulls back just enough to look Thomas in the eye as he gasps, "Truly?"

Thomas gives a soft smile. His eyes drift slightly to a point over Edward's shoulder before they focus fully on him. He takes Edward's face in his hands and replies, "Truly," before crashing their mouths together.

Watching Thomas dress is something that has not lost its novelty. He is meticulous in the way each piece of clothing adorns his body, making certain each item is perfect before moving on to the next. There is something calming about watching the man do something so ordinary and Edward thinks, though they've never spoken about it, that Thomas enjoys the attention.

He is beautiful even wrapped in his uniform with a light blush still coloring his cheeks and Edward, perched on the edge of his bed, cannot contain his, "Stay the night." 

Waking beside Thomas is a fantasy he's had since the beginning. It cannot happen on a ship where they may be roused at any time, where discovery means a lashing or worse. Edward desires it nonetheless.

Thomas smiles sweetly as he steps firmly into his boots. "You'll need your rest. Besides," his smile turns mischievous, "what if we were discovered?" He feigns a scandalized gasp of shock before chuckling.

Edward snorts in response, returning the mirth unconsciously, before his face falls. "You've never been afraid. Of being caught, I mean."

"No," Thomas replies, catching Edward's gaze.

Edward inhales slowly. "Do you fear anything?"

Thomas's stare is unwavering as he questions, "Like what?"

Edward does look away now. With a sigh and a shake of the head, he begins haltingly, "Of...of the walk out? Or a...I don't know…a mutiny?"

"No," comes the level reply. "I have faith the captain will lead us to safety." He pauses and then continues pointedly, "and I have no fear of any man on this ship or Erebus."

"The creature?" Edward whispers in a hushed rasp.

"It cannot hurt me," Thomas says so dismissively that Edward's eyes snap up, brows knit in confusion. "I do not believe it can. I _refuse_ to allow it."

"Ah," Edward begins, only slightly comforted by the clarification. "And if you have deemed it, it must be so."

"Yes." Thomas waits a beat before continuing, "Why not? Stranger things have happened, Ned."

He's right. This expedition has been fraught with strangeness that cannot be explained. But then, so has Edward's life. "Do you think," he begins, uncertain, "that we are cursed by the Devil?" He swallows, trepidation rising in his chest. "Or that we've brought the wrath of God down upon us?"

Thomas sighs. It sounds weary to Edward's ears and he instantly feels guilty. He has already nursed the captain back to health and now he must coddle Edward's fragile nerves. He scrambles to apologize, to dismiss his remarks, but Thomas cuts him off by kneeling in front of him. He places his hands on Edward's knees.

"I do not think the Devil has anything to do with it." The measure of his voice is calm. " _Some_ god may have a hand in this, but it is no god we know." He strokes his thumbs on the bare flesh of Edward's thighs. 

It is soothing and Edward finds tears flooding his eyes. He looks away and catches a sob in his throat before gasping out, "I _am_ afraid. Of tomorrow. Of the day after." A tear falls to wet the sheet beneath him and a second sob refuses to be held back.

"Ned," Thomas tries, leaning forward. When he gets nothing but shy mumbles he tries again. "Edward, look at me." This is a command he can follow. Through a haze of tears he looks into those bottomless blue eyes and feels calm wash over him.

Thomas rubs his hands over Edward's knees with gentle circles. When he lifts them to his face, he wipes the tears away. Then, cradling his cheeks, takes a firm grip of his whiskers. "Ned," he says firmly, mouth set in a determined line. "Would you give me the world?" 

It barely registers in Edward's mind that he has heard these words before, but he knows the answer to this question. Before he can think, without truly knowing if it is himself or the repetition of Lucien's feverish whispers, he breathes, "You _are_ the world."

Thomas's grin splits across his face and it fills Edward with a blinding light. "Would you give me anything I wanted?" He knows this answer, too. "Anything," he replies on an exhale.

Edward watches Thomas's pupils dilate, hears the deep inhale, and feels the fingers on his face tighten. "I want _us_ to never be parted," Thomas whispers hotly. 

"Never," Edward gasps back in a daze. "Never."

"Then," Thomas says with finality as he lets go of Edward and stands abruptly, "there is nothing to fear." He urges Edward up, coaxes him into his nightclothes, and kisses him deeply before sliding out of the door.

Lucien is standing in the shadows Thomas left behind. His expression is dark, his eyes burning into Edward's own. He comes before Edward, where he still sits on the edge of his bed, and traces the side of his face with a pointed fingertip. "He is everything," Lucien says, like it answers any of Edward's questions.

He realizes very suddenly the truth of his life. He is no great man without Lucien, no sailor or leader, but he is still a man. Without Thomas he is less than that. Without Thomas he is _nothing_.

" _We_ are nothing without him," Lucien proclaims. He is standing very close. The scent of him is a reprieve to the soot and smoke. Edward reaches for him and presses his face into the warmth of his stomach. He breathes in the now comforting smell of leather and water and blood. 

"We are soon to be without him," Edward murmurs, voice muffled by fabric. Lucien pets his hair, the touch real. Tangible. 

"Only for a time," Lucien says. His touch turns harsh as he grasps Edward's hair and yanks his head back. Gazing into Edward's eyes, he growls, "And then he will be ours forever."

Edward can only agree as he lets Lucien push him back to the bed. He will not sleep, but he will take some consolation in this.

He takes his breakfast in the officer's mess for what is likely the last time. There is a sense of finality in the quiet that descends. These are the first steps of a perilous journey and there will be no going back. Thomas brushes discretely against him as he pours tea and Edward inhales deeply. The scent of Thomas envelopes him, warm and comfortable. He will miss this.

If all goes well, they will only be separated for a few weeks, but Edward worries. The headaches that have plagued him since the voyage first began have tapered off and, in truth, he can't remember the last time one struck him. However, the fear of being incompasitated without Thomas to comfort him sits like lead in his stomach. How will he be able to command? He will certainly need to rely on Lucien to get him through.

As Edward passes to his berth to collect his meager belongings, Neptune growls from the doorway of the great cabin. He ignores the beast. He will _not_ miss that damn dog.

Looking up at Terror as he stands before his sledge party, the captain saluting and praising them, Edward feels a twinge of guilt. That he is leaving for the final time should carry some weight, but it feels no different than the last two sledge parties he led. Terror has been his home for years and, yet, bidding her farewell is easier than leaving England has ever been.

Edward has been concerned, with many of the men showing early signs of scurvy, there would be some push back against the difficult labor of hauling. His fears are unfounded as the men prove to be more than cooperative. They listen to orders without complaint and rise to the challenges before them with resolution.

Lucien floats just outside of Edward's peripherals. He is reluctant to follow and, if Edward could send him back to Terror, he would have already done so. The protection it would provide Thomas is invaluable. Their creature is still out there and Edward has suspected for years that a second far more sinister monster has been stalking them. Lucien's love for Thomas is a terrifying fixation, but Edward is convinced he would do anything to ensure Thomas's survival.

When Lucien does come closer, he seems diminished. It is odd to see him as anything other than a warm blooded man. But, now, out on the vast gray expanse of the ice and shale, he is very much the ghost, the specter, he was in Edward's youth.

The camp they build is simple, but steady in its foundation of actual earth. The shale may be harsh and unforgiving, but it is, wonderfully, not ice. The tension in the men eases somewhat, but they remain ever alert. There has been no sign of threat nor whiff of coming danger and Edward cannot tell if this bodes well.

The days grow steadily longer and, at their end, Edward finds himself depleted. He curls up on his lonely cot and listens hard for any sign of movement beyond the thin canvas wall. It is not the lumbering steps of a great beastial bear that he waits for, but the soft flutter of wings that will herald the coming of something far more dangerous. As sleep begins to take him, Lucien lingers by his side. He gently brushes a lock of hair from Edward's face and sighs, "Soon." 

The broken battlefield he finds himself on is a dreamscape he has visited before. With bodies and discarded weaponry strewn about, the charred earth is a gruesome sight. There is a man, his back turned, walking in the opposite direction. Edward can recognize Lucien from his slow, deliberate saunter. Behind him a carrion crow flies from body to body, it's iridescent wings catching in the dim light. It lands on a broken wooden beam, its jagged edge reaching to the sky. It caws once. The sound is unnatural, deep and grating. _Monstrous_. It turns to look at Edward, blue eyes piercing and cruel, before it unfolds its wings and takes flight. As it climbs into the air, it sounds as though it is laughing.

Edward wakes, sluggish from the chill, to find the little camp in full routine. He thinks nothing of Lucien's absence from the tent until midday, when Edward realizes he cannot feel him. He tries to reach out, to call to that spiritual connection between them, but it yields nothing. Slowly dread washes over him. By nightfall he is sick with fear. Lucien is _gone_. What does this _mean_? Has he found a way to sever the tie between them? Has he found his way back to Thomas or abandoned them both?

When he sleeps it is in short restless bursts. He dreams of the blue eyed carrion crow flying from battlefield to battlefield while Lucien watches it soar above him. Its beak drips with blood. During his duties, he can feel his command slipping away. The men seem agitated and dismissive no matter how he tries to emulate all he has learned from Lucien. He feels useless.

Crozier's arrival, with the rest of command and crew, is a relief. Everything will be so much simpler. He and Fitzjames will take the rope from Edward's waning grip and they will lead. Easy. Nothing to worry about. 

Seeing Thomas is like breathing again after being starved of air. He, like the others, looks strained with exhaustion. Edward would take him in his arms if he could, kiss him from head to toe, and check every inch of his body for damage.

Edward gives a soft nod and watches Thomas incline in head in silent reply. _I am fine_ , he says with his eyes. Privacy doesn't exist in the camp and they will have nothing but memories and fleeting moments, but it is something. Lost in his thoughts, he does not see the black mass that is bounding toward him until it is too late. With a yelp, Edward is slammed to the ground with the full weight of a Newfoundland pressing against him. The dog is a furnace as it's wet tongue laps at his face. Neptune whines and nuzzles his hands as he tries to pry him off. With great effort he finally manages to wrestle the dog off of him and he sits, damp and dumbfounded.

Neptune gazes back expectantly, his tail wagging. This dog hated him not three weeks ago. Puzzled, Edward kneels up cautiously and extends his hand. The dog immediately greets him by nudging his palm with its nose. Edward pets him slowly, should the beast change its mind and bite.

"It seems to have gotten over whatever offense you've shown it." Thomas is at his side. "Perhaps, distance has made the heart grow fonder." Edward turns his head to look at him. The smile that greets him fills him with warmth. It's the warmest he's been in weeks. 

Thomas reaches out to touch Neptune lightly, but the dog yanks itself out of Edward's grasp. It hesitates, looking at Thomas defensively, and then bounds off after Crozier.

"That is the strangest animal I have ever seen," Edward remarks as he stands. Thomas hums in agreement behind him. It is the only warning Edward gets before the dust is being beaten out of his back.

Reuniting with Thomas does not bring a reunion with Lucien. Dread lodges itself like a stone in Edward's stomach. After all of the years they've spent together and all they've accomplished, why has he been abandoned now? But, then, perhaps he has _not_ been abandoned. Perhaps some force or some magnetic pull has pushed Lucien away.

Uncertainty eats at him.

That night, in the tent he's sharing with Irving, Edward cannot find sleep. He does not wish to, does not wish to see the horrors his mind conjures. Beside him Irving falls into the deep sleep of exhaustion and Edward envies him.

He must, eventually, fall asleep for he is suddenly standing on the barren shale. There is nothing. No camp. No color. The grey sky rolls around him and meets the ground in an endless loop. He turns in place and tries to run forward, but makes no progress. He shouts, but no sound leaves his mouth. He turns again and sees the shadow of a figure in the distance. 

He blinks.

Before him is a corpse mutilated beyond dignity. It has been cut and maimed in appalling ways. Looking into the face Edward recoils. Staring back at him are the lifeless eyes of John Irving. He gasps. Taking a step back he bumps into something. Arms wind around him and he hesitates to look, knows what he will see. Black scaled hands stroke down his belly. He feels the needle sharp claws drag over his clothing. In his ear, breaking the deafening silence around him, he hears, "Mine."

Edward flails to get away and nearly topples off his little cot. Irving is standing, alive and whole, buttoning his coat. He can do nothing but stare as a soft pink flush touches the man's cheeks. He is _truly_ alive.

"Alright, Edward?" Irving inquires.

He mumbles something in reply before throwing the blankets off and dressing himself. He is not alright, but there will be much to do in camp.

When he takes his place beside Irving at the command meeting he feels sullied. It's like he's keeping a secret all to himself as his mind calls back to the images of blood across the shale. The disturbing nature of the dream is worrisome, but not uncommon now. Doctor Goodsir has spoken of many men having strange or unnatural dreams. He's sure he'd do best to focus on the hunting parties the captain wishes to organize.

But, then, to all their surprise, Thomas is promoted to lieutenant and all foul thoughts leave Edward's mind. He cannot hold back his giddy laughter. He has never been more proud of his Tommy, who has, beyond all men on the expedition, _earned_ this recognition. The stunned look on Thomas' face is adorable and Edward's heart swells at the sight. He does his best to convey his pride without giving too much away and prays Thomas will see it through his own haze of shock.

John Irving is murdered not four hours later and the body they bring in is maimed in the exact ways his dream predicted. Bile rises up the back of Edward's throat and he is dizzy with panic. The world seems to vibrate. He does not know what to do. The captains aren't here and there is just so much noise.

Thomas's voice cuts through the din in his ears, knife sharp in its commands. The men shy away, quiet down, and seem to calm. Hickey is speaking to them. _Hickey_ , a man whose backside Edward has seen flayed open, standing proud and bright eyed and relaying a ghastly tale of an Inuit attack. It is clear from Thomas's clipped tone he doesn't believe him. 

Edward doesn't know what to believe.

The Marines hound him for guns and Edward is reluctant to hand them over. It is an order that has been denied before, but, if they are truly in danger, the Marines will need them. His head reels with so many thoughts he can barely string together a sentence. If only Lucien were here. He would know what to do, what to say.

The captains return to a camp in near hysteria. Crozier demands to hear the story recounted and sets out to see the gruesome scene. He doesn't believe Hickey either and denies the requests for arms. Edward is relieved a decision has been made, but fear cling to him. What if there _is_ an attack being planned? They have no way to know.

For now it _should_ be simple. Keep the men calm.

It is anything _but_ calm. A fog rolls in and the men, spurred by Tozer, claim to hear calling and rustling out in it. Edward hears nothing, but the sound of his own beating heart. Tozer sets about distributing weapons without orders and he does his best to stop him. In Tozer's handsome face Edward sees determination and a refusal to relent. He will not bend. So, Edward does instead. What else can he do?

Crozier is disappointed in him and he feels incompetent. John _was_ murdered, not by a collection of vicious natives, but by Hickey himself. If vomiting would not further his indignity, Edward would give in to the urge to purge the meager rations he's choked down.

He can scarcely believe the horror they have found themselves in. Men will be _hanged_. This is not something he has ever contemplated being a part of. He can barely breathe for how scattered and thin and lost he feels. He bears little love for Hickey and mourns only that Tozer has been taken in by such a snake, but cannot help his feelings of guilt. Lucien had always pushed him away from them both. Perhaps he could see their black intentions. Like knows like after all. Was it also there for Edward to see? Was it plain as day and he was too caught up in Thomas to notice? It _is_ possible. Anything is.

He barely listens as Crozier speaks, cannot comprehend what any of them are saying. There is a buzzing in his brain, loud and insistent. A great weight sits on his shoulders. He wants desperately for it to be over or for it to never have happened at all.

With a sudden great roar the creature attacks, charging in out of the mist and destroying everything in its path. The bloodied white if it's fur passes too close. Edward stands stunned, oddly relieved it is not the abomination of his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some descriptions of canon typical gore, namely Irving's death.


End file.
